Trans-Atlantyk: An Alternate Translation 9780300207019

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PREFACE TO THE 1957 EDITION
Trans-Atlantyk

Citation preview

Trans-Atlantyk

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Trans-Atlantyk An Alternate Translation W I TO L D G O M B ROW I CZ

TR ANSL ATED BY DANUTA BORCHARDT

YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS

E NEW HAVEN & LONDON

A M A RG E L LO S WORLD REPUBLIC OF LETTERS BOOK

The Margellos World Republic of Letters is dedicated to making literary works from around the globe available in English through translation. It brings to the English-speaking world the work of leading poets, novelists, essayists, philosophers, and playwrights from Europe, Latin America, Africa, Asia, and the Middle East to stimulate international discourse and creative exchange. Published with assistance from the Louis Stern Memorial Fund. Copyright ∫ Czytelnik, Warsaw, 1957. Copyright renewed ∫ Rita Gombrowicz, 2005. English translation copyright ∫ Danuta Borchardt, 2014. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. Yale University Press books may be purchased in quantity for educational, business, or promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected] (U.S. office) or [email protected] (U.K. office). Set in Electra and Nobel type by Keystone Typesetting, Inc., Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania. Printed in the United States of America. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Gombrowicz, Witold. [Trans-Atlantyk. English] Trans-Atlantyk: an alternate translation / Witold Gombrowicz ; Translated by Danuta Borchardt. pages cm.—(The Margellos World Republic of Letters) ISBN 978-0-300-17530-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Gombrowicz, Witold—Fiction. 2. Polish people—Argentina—History—Fiction. I. Borchardt, Danuta, 1930–, translator. II. Title. PG7158.G669T713 2014 891.8%53—dc23 2013020792 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

Translator’s Note

vii

Acknowledgments

xiii

Preface to the 1957 Edition, by Witold Gombrowicz Trans-Atlantyk

1

xv

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T R A N S L AT O R ’ S N O T E

Witold Gombrowicz deemed Trans-Atlantyk his most untranslatable work, and it will always be a great challenge to any translator. When I read Carolyn French and Nina Karsov’s translation, I felt that another attempt was justified. Perusing the analysis of the complex internal structure of his language by Ewa S™awkowa, a Gombrowicz scholar, was indeed discouraging, but Stanis™aw Baranczak, ´ another major modern scholar, described it as ‘‘a masterpiece of twentieth-century fiction and one of the most dazzlingly original works in all of Polish literature.’’ I could not resist such a challenge. As an already renowned author, Gombrowicz was invited to a cruise on an ocean liner’s maiden voyage from Poland to Buenos Aires. A few days after the ship docked, at the end of August 1939, World War II broke out. Gombrowicz decided to stay in Argentina and lived there for the next twenty-three years rather than return to Europe. Often penniless or working on a meager salary as a bank clerk, he wrote his Diary, plays, and novels. Thus Trans-Atlantyk was written in Argentina and published serially in 1953 in the literary journal Kultura, then revised by the author in 1957. My translation is of the 1957 version, rather than of the 1953 version used by French and Karsov.

viii Translator’s Note

Trans-Atlantyk is probably Gombrowicz’s most iconoclastic novel. It tells the individual and society (not only Polish, but society in general) to rise above its mores—nationalistic, patriotic, sexual—and to liberate itself from its societal manners and constraints. Do not be just a Pole, be a human being free of all these encumbrances: this is one of his messages. Another, also directed at Poles, is a reprimand for their two-centuries-old martyrlike stance that began with the Partitions of Poland in the late 1700s. Gombrowicz does not let the nation off the hook: there were political events engendered by Poles themselves that led to that tragedy. Gombrowicz does not seem to be moved by the ‘‘innocent victim’’ notion. Is it a wonder then, that he chose the Polish gaw˛eda, a fireside chat, in its mostly anachronistic version, as his stylistic mode? If it was meant as a distancing device to save him from being crucified by his compatriots, it worked, but only partially. His third, tongue-in-cheek, message has a more universal portent: issues between individuals and nations can be so horrific that nothing but humungous laughter may deliver salvation. Historically, the gaw˛eda was a tale, a mode of interaction at social gatherings of the sixteenth- to nineteenth-century Sarmatian Polish nobility in their country manors. This was reflected in seventeenth-century Polish literature and has persisted in some twentieth-century writings, as well as in fireside social

Translator’s Note ix

gatherings. I have been unable to find an equivalent to the gaw˛eda style in American literature. In order to transpose, as faithfully as possible, Gombrowicz’s style, I have made an attempt to educate myself in English from roughly the same time period during which the gaw˛eda thrived. I have studied the vocabulary and the rhythms of earlier English, especially by reading the works of Jonathan Swift, Laurence Sterne, and Herman Melville. Trans-Atlantyk is a tale spoken mostly in baroque Polish and written in the first person. Even though not autobiographical, it relates the anxiety of the narrator—and, by implication, of the author—about the fate of his family and friends during the war raging in Poland. The narrator has encounters with the Polish envoy in Buenos Aires, with half-witted Polish industrialists, with a rich Argentinean homosexual, with a retired Polish army major and his son whom the Argentinean wants to seduce. Consistent with the author’s philosophy of struggle between the constraint of Form and the pitfalls of Chaos, Gombrowicz plunges the reader into both. In Gombrowicz’s gaw˛eda, the narrator chats directly with his listeners. Spoken mostly in the past tense, the narrative often reverts—awkwardly to the English-speaker’s ear—to the present tense, thus insinuating the narrator into the present and among his listeners. A translation needs to convey, through the use of colloquialisms, an informal mode. The narrative has to flow quickly, easily.

x Translator’s Note

Yet it must also preserve the author’s use of repetition and other rhetorical devices, as well as simulating as effectively as possible the beautiful lyrical passages that elevate the narrator’s spoken tale into a written work of art. For further guidance into the language I went to the author himself, who wrote to his friend Dominique de Roux: ‘‘This Trans-Atlantyk always makes me laugh . . . It frolics without restraint, it is sclerotic, absurd, in the gaw˛eda-style from one hundred years ago but mixed with another class of words, often with words invented by me.’’ Gombrowicz’s ‘‘sclerotic’’ denotes the rigidity, the hardening of our modern-day ideas, our behavior, the mores that he is fighting against. The message for me as the translator is to maintain this rigidity by forgoing any fancy rendition of the Polish (except where Gombrowicz’s inventions make it necessary), instead adhering to well-worn expressions and idioms in English. In order to convey the archaic language appropriate to the gaw˛eda, Gombrowicz uses expressions and rhetorical devices typical of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Polish. For example, he sometimes reverses expected sentence order, suspending the verb until the end of a clause. I have infrequently encountered such reversals in, say, Swift, and have used them in my rendering of Gombrowicz’s reversals only to the extent that they worked well in English. Gombrowicz also mimics the broader and more idiosyncratic use of uppercase letters common to earlier texts (in English as well), though he uses this device more sparingly in his 1957 version than in 1953. He also employs

Translator’s Note xi

archaic orthography—spelling te˙z, ‘‘also,’’ in the older Polish style, ty˙z; many such examples are of course untranslatable. Unlike archaic English spellings like rustick or mathematicks, in Polish, the change in spelling reflects a change in pronunciation as well. Going to his eastern Poland roots (Kresy or Borderlands), Gombrowicz used some forms of language still typical of those regions. So here we have a tale, a fireside chat, written in a language current from the seventeenth century until the beginning of the twentieth. The narrative constantly shifts from humor to irony to tragedy. Gombrowicz places his story not in baroque Poland but in the Argentina of his time (almost as strange a world as Swift’s Lilliput), not in baroque but in contemporary time. Moreover, to the narrator Argentina is the world at large, as opposed to his parochial Poland. If I were to enunciate the two most important principles in my work as a translator, they would be fidelity to the original and beauty of the target language. I hope that I have, in some measure, achieved my goals in presenting this funny and tragic novel, in all its wisdom and beauty, to the Anglo-American readership.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, Thom Lane, my former husband and now my friend, has offered me his assistance in translating Witold Gombrowicz’s language into English. An outstanding knowledge of the English language, both literary and colloquial, is one thing. But Lane’s creative sensitivity to its archaic form, so crucial in translating Trans-Atantyk, raises his command to another level. My gratitude to him is immense. It would be easy for me to be overconfident of my own language but, while translating Ferdydurke, Witold Gombrowicz’s first novel, I learned that I need Dr. Richard Fenigsen’s acquaintance with Polish to help me through the more difficult passages. I want to express my deep appreciation of his thorough scrutiny of my native language. I am deeply indebted to Professor Jerzy Jarniewicz for suggesting in a 2004 article in Gombrowicz i t™umacze—Gombrowicz and his translators—that in my translation of Trans-Atlantyk I follow Gombrowicz’s use of clichés rather than provide creative expressions, because ‘‘that’s where the shoe pinches,’’ he writes. These clichés, according to Jarniewicz, ‘‘contribute one of the main themes of his novel, and stand for the inescapable power of Form,’’ which Gombrowicz constantly battled against.

xiv Acknowledgments

My writing style sometimes tends to be telegraphic. It was therefore a privilege to have Dan Heaton as my manuscript editor. He made my Translator’s Note more intelligible and pleasing to the reader. More important, I greatly appreciated Dan’s literary sensitivity in his approach to Witold Gombrowicz’s idiosyncratic prose. I am also grateful to Elina Bloch, Margellos World Republic of Letters coordinator, who patiently guided me through the logistics of the publication process. Last but not least, my thanks go to John Donatich, director of Yale University Press, who, during our lunch one day in New Haven, and in the middle of my prepared dissertation about the need for a second translation of Trans-Atlantyk, propelled me without much ado by asking, ‘‘When can you deliver it?’’ That took courage.

P R E FA C E T O T H E 1 9 5 7 E D I T I O N

It seems that I no longer need to worry about the first roar of indignation—the first confrontation of Trans-Atlantyk with the reader happened a couple of years ago, in exile, and is behind me. It is therefore time to avert another danger, namely that of the work being read in a manner that is too narrow and too shallow. I must insist that today, on the eve of its publication in Poland, the text be given a deeper and more comprehensive reading. I must insist on this—because in some measure this work concerns our nation, while our mentality, in exile as well as within our country, is not yet free-minded enough on this matter, it continues to be fitful and even pretentious . . . We do not know how to read books on this subject in a simple way. Our Polish complex is thus far too intense, and we are too much burdened by tradition. Some people (I used to be one of them) are almost afraid of the word ‘‘fatherland,’’ as if it takes their development thirty years back. It takes others immediately onto the path of the compulsory stereotypes in our literature. Am I exaggerating? Yet the mail brings me various voices about TransAtlantyk, and I learn that it is ‘‘a pamphlet on the god-fatherland platitude’’ or ‘‘a satire on prewar Poland’’ . . . Someone even

xvi Preface to the 1957 Edition

qualified it as . . . a pamphlet on sanacja.* On this scale of things the best opinion I could hope for would be one that sees in this work a ‘‘national self-examination,’’ as well as a ‘‘criticism of our national flaws.’’ But why do I need do battle with a deceased, prewar Poland or with the outworn style of the old patriotism when I have other, more universal quandaries? Why would I want to waste time on timeworn trivia? I am one of those ambitious shooters who, if they botch things up, it’s because they take on bigger beasts. I do not deny: Trans-Atlantyk is, among other things, a satire. It is also, among other things, a rather intense reckoning . . . but, obviously, not with the Poland of our time, but with the Poland that has been created by her historical existence and her location in the world (this means a w e a k Poland). And I concur that Trans-Atlantyk is a corsair ship that smuggles a lot of dynamite in order to explode our hitherto-felt national emotions. It even conceals within it a requirement of sorts with regard to certain emotions: to overcome Polishness. To loosen up our submission to Poland! To break away just a little! Rise from our knees! To reveal, legalize another dimension of feeling which orders a human being to defend himself against his nation as against any collective force. To obtain—this is most important— freedom from the Polish form, while being a Pole to be some* Józef Pi™sudski’s political system after 1926.

Preface to the 1957 Edition xvii

one larger and higher than a Pole! Here it is—Trans-Atlantyk’s ideological contraband. This might mean a very far-reaching revision of our relationship to the nation—so far-reaching that it might totally transform our frame of mind and liberate energies that would, as the final outcome, be useful to the nation. A revision, nota bene, of a universal character—I might propose this to peoples of other nations, because the problem is not only the relationship of a Pole to Poland but that of any human being to his nation. And finally a revision as it most closely relates to all the contemporary problems, because I have my sights (as always) on strengthening, enriching the life of the individual, making him more resistant to the oppressive superiority of the masses. This is the ideological mode in which Trans-Atlantyk is written. I have written many times about these ideas in my diary published in the Paris Kultura. The Diary has now appeared as a book, in Paris. The excerpt from the Kultura of March 1957 that makes also a commentary on my heresy did not appear in that book. However, is the above idea the subject of my book? Is art supposed to be an essay on a subject? These questions are probably timely because, I’m afraid, the critics in Poland have not yet recovered from the mania of social realism that demands ‘‘art on a subject.’’ No, Trans-Atlantyk does not have a subject beyond the story that it is telling. It is just a tale, nothing more than just a narrative of a certain world—that can only be worth something

xviii Preface to the 1957 Edition

as long as it turns out to be funny, colorful, exploratory and evocative—it is something shining, shimmering, glimmering with a multitude of meanings. Trans-Atlantyk is, in bits and pieces, all you might want: a satire, a criticism, a treatise, fun, absurdity, a drama—but it is not exclusive of anything because it is only me, my ‘‘vibration,’’ my catharsis, my existence. Is this about Poland? I don’t feel entitled to write about her—I have never written a single word about anything except about me. In the year 1939 I found myself in Buenos Aires, cast out of Poland and out of my former life, in an extremely dangerous situation. A bankrupt past. The present like the night. My future inscrutable. No support from anywhere. The Form is breaking up and falling apart under the blows of universal Becoming . . . What’s old is nothing but impotence, what’s new and incoming is violence. In this wasteland of anarchy, among toppled gods, I am left to my own devices. What do you want me to feel at such a moment? To destroy the past within me? . . . To surrender to the future? . . . Yes . . . but I didn’t want to surrender my very person to anything, to any incoming configuration—I wanted to be something higher and richer than a configuration. Hence the l a u g h t e r in Trans-Atlantyk. Such was, more or less, my adventure that generated a grotesque book, spread-eagled between the past and the future. H To make things clear one must add, perhaps unnecessarily: Trans-Atlantyk is a fantasy. Everything—is invented with only a

Preface to the 1957 Edition xix

very loose connection to the real Argentina and to the Polish colony in Buenos Aires. My ‘‘defection’’ also proves to be different in reality (I refer searchers to my diary). Witold Gombrowicz

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Trans-Atlantyk

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I feel the need to convey to my Family, to my kin and friends, this the beginning of my adventures, now ten years long, in the Argentinean capital. I’m not inviting anyone to eat these old noodles of mine, the turnips that may even be raw, because they’re in a common pewter bowl, Lean, Paltry, even Embarrassing withal, cooked in the oil of my Sins, of my Embarrassments, these my heavy grits, Dark, together with this black gruel of mine, oh, you better not put them in your mouth, unless ’tis for my eternal damnation and degradation, on my Life’s unending road and up this arduous and wearisome Mountain of mine. On the twenty-first of August 1939, on the ship Chrobry, I was touching land in Buenos Aires. Being under way from Gdynia to Buenos Aires had been exceedingly delightful . . . I was even loath to disembark, for twenty days one had been between sky and water, remembering nothing, in air bathed, in waves melting, and blown through by the wind. Czes™aw Straszewicz, my companion, was with me and shared my cabin, because both of us, as literati, God help us hardly fledged, had been invited aboard this new ship on her maiden voyage; besides him there was Rembielinski ´ the senator, Mazurkiewicz the cabinet minister, and many other persons whose acquaintance I had made.

2 Trans-Atlantyk

Also two young ladies, pretty, shapely, eager, with whom I prattled and pranced in my free moments, spinning their cute little heads this way and that, and so, I repeat, between Sky and Water, on and on, calmly . . . And thus, when we reached land, I, with Mr. Czes™aw and Rembielinski ´ the senator, ventured into town, totally in the dark as if inside a snuff horn, because not one of us had ever set foot here. The tumult, the dust and grayness of the earth struck us unpleasantly after the limpid, salty rosary of waves we had been reciting over the water. Nonetheless, crossing Retiro Square, where stands the tower built by the English, we jauntily stepped onto Florida Street with its luxurious shops, Extraordinary abundance of Goods and wares, the flower of the refined populace, big Department Stores, also cafés. There Rembielinski ´ the senator perused the purses, while I saw a poster on which the word ‘‘caravanas’’ was inscribed, I saw it and, on this clear, Tumultuous day, as we ambled to and fro, to and fro, I said to Mr. Czes™aw: ‘‘Oh . . . do you see there, Mr. Czes™aw, those Hearses?’’* But forthwith to the ship we must return, where the captain was entertaining Chairmen and Representatives of the local Polish community. A great assembly of these Chairmen and Envoys had gathered here, and I immediately proceeded to make enemies for myself, for I was lost among those new, unfamiliar countenances as in a forest, lost in their ranks and titles, * In Polish karawan means a hearse—a touch of black humor on the author’s part.

Trans-Atlantyk 3

mixing up people, matters, and things, now vodka drinking, now not drinking, and I was as if walking blindfolded across a field. His Excellency Minister Kosiubidzki, Felix, our envoy to this country, he too was honoring the Reception by his presence and, holding a glass in his hand, stood for two hours, most politely honoring by his standing now this one, now that one. Amidst the whirl of speeches and conversations, in the lifeless glare of lamps, I was looking as if through a telescope, and, seeing Strangeness everywhere, Unfamiliarity and Puzzle, seized by nothingness and grayness, I was calling out to my home, Friends, and Companions. Albeit little came of it. And something was not good. Because back there, you see, things were getting messed up, and even though deserted as on a field at night, there, beyond the Forest, beyond the Barn, dread and God’s curse upon us and as if something were brewing; but everyone was hoping that perhaps it would come to naught, from a big cloud little rain, and like a hag—she rolls about, roars, moans with her big Belly, Black, and oh, Terrible, as if she’ll give birth to Satan himself, but ’tis just colic; thus all the fear is gone. But something’s not good, it seems something’s not good, oh, not good. In these last few days before the war broke out I and Mr. Czes™aw, Rembielinski ´ the senator, and Mazurkiewicz the minister, attended many Receptions, and so did His Excellency the envoy Kosiubidzki and the Consul and some Marquise or other in the hotel Alvear, and God knows who, and what, and where, and for what reason, and to what effect and why; but as we emerged from these receptions, our

4 Trans-Atlantyk

ears were filled with newspaper cries: ‘‘Polonia, Polonia,’’ most irksome. Right then we turn heavy, we grow morose, down in the mouth, everyone walking about crestfallen, filled as much with Worries as with Delicacies. Then Czes™aw comes running forthwith to our cabin (because we’re still living on the ship) with a newspaper, shouting: ‘‘War will break out today, tomorrow, no way around it! And thus the captain has issued an order for the ship to set to sea, even though we won’t get through to Poland, we might reach the shores of England or Scotland.’’ When thus he spoke, we fell into each other’s arms in tears, and forthwith fell to our knees, calling for God’s help and offering ourselves to Our Lord. And thus kneeling I say to Czes™aw: ‘‘Sail ye away, sail with God!’’ Czes™aw says to me: ‘‘How so, surely you’re sailing with us!’’ So I say (but on purpose from my knees not rising): ‘‘Sail on, and with luck may you get there.’’ Says he: ‘‘What’s this you’re saying? So you’re not sailing?’’ Say I: ‘‘To Poland I would sail; but why to England? Why to England or to Scotland? I’ll stay here.’’ I thus say to him half-mouthing my words (because the whole truth I could not utter), and he looks at me, and looks. Then he says, greatly worried: ‘‘You do not wish to come with us? You prefer to stay here? But be sure to go to our Legation and report to them so they won’t declare you a deserter or something worse. You’ll go to the Legation, won’t you?’’ I reply: ‘‘Of course I’ll go, what do you take me for, I know my duty as a citizen, don’t worry about me. But better not tell anyone, in case I change my mind and sail with you.’’ Not until now, when the worst was

Trans-Atlantyk 5

over, did I rise from my knees, while Czes™aw, a good soul but terribly worried, still bestowed upon me his heartfelt friendship (considering the secret we now shared). I didn’t want to reveal to this man, my Compatriot, the whole truth, nor to the other Compatriots or Countrymen of mine . . . for they might burn me at the stake for it, with horses or claws tear me apart, branding me dishonorable and faithless. My greatest difficulty was that while living on the ship, I could in no manner leave it secretly. Thus, on my guard with everyone, in the midst of the pandemonium of the populace, amidst their throbbing hearts, their shouts and songs of enthusiasm, their soft sighs of fear and anxiety, and following the others, I too am shouting or singing, or running around, or sighing . . . but as soon as the lines were about to be let go and the ship—by people rocked, by my Compatriots blackened—was just, just about to cast off and sail, I, with the man who was carrying my two suitcases behind me, step down the ladder and onto land and begin to walk away. I thus walk away. And not once do I turn around to look. I walk away and have no idea what’s there, behind me. And I walk away along a gravel path, and I’m quite far off. Not until I’m very far away do I stop and look back, and there is the ship away from the shore, sitting on the water, and she’s heavy, squat. Right then and there I wanted to fall to my knees! However, I didn’t fall, not at all, but instead I began, just ever so softly to Curse, to Swear mightily, but just to myself: ‘‘Oh, sail ye, sail ye my Compatriots to thy very own Nation! Sail ye to thy Nation

6 Trans-Atlantyk

sacred albeit Accursed! Sail ye to that St. Monster, the Dark one, that has been trying for ages to give up the ghost but cannot! Sail ye to that St. Crackpot of thine, by Nature accursed, for ever being born yet remaining Unborn! Sail ye, sail so he will let ye neither Live nor Die, and will forever hold ye between Existence and Nonexistence. Sail ye to that St. Sluggard of thine, so he will keep ye Snail-crawling!’’ The ship had by now turned a-slant and was heading out, so I continued: ‘‘Sail to that Lunatic, to that St. Madman of thine, oh, albeit Accursed, so that he will Torment ye and Torture ye with his leaps and frenzies, his blood boiling at ye, he will growl at ye with his Growl, be-growl ye, torture ye unto death with his Torture, thy children, thy wives, unto Death, unto his own Demise himself demising unto the demise of his Madness Driving ye Mad, Raging!’’ With this Malediction turning away from the ship, I stepped into the city. H All I had was ninety-six dollars, just enough to provide no more than two months of the most modest living, I thus needed to set my head forthwith upon what to do and how. I decided first to direct myself to Mr. Cieciszowski, whom I had known many years ago because his mother, when widowed, lived at the Adam Krzywnickis’ near Kielce, two miles away from my Cousins, the Szymuskis, whom I sometimes visited with my brother and sister-in-law, mostly for duck hunting. So this Cieciszowski, having lived here for a few years, could render me help and advice. I forthwith went to him with my bundles, and luckily it

Trans-Atlantyk 7

happened that I found him at home. He was perchance the strangest man I had ever in my life encountered, for he was lean, of slight build, and due to Greensickness, which he had in childhood contracted, was exceedingly Pale, and, notwithstanding all his politeness and urbanity, like a hare by a meadow path pricking its ears, catching whatever was in the wind, often Shouting or Falling silent helter-skelter. Upon seeing me he exclaimed: ‘‘Oh, look, who do I see?!’’ And he hugs me, sit down he begs me, pulls up this and that stool, how can he be of service keeps asking. The true, onerous Blasphemous reason for my stay here I could not reveal, because, as a Compatriot, he could denounce me. I thus say only this and that, and, since I’m cut off from my country, with great Dolor, in sorrow, that I have decided to stay here rather than sail to England or Scotland and wander in exile. With equal wariness he replies that surely in this our Mother’s hour of distress every Son’s kindly heart speeds to her like a bird, ‘‘but,’’ says he, ‘‘there’s No Way out, I understand your Dolor, indeed, over the ocean you cannot jump, I thus approve or do not approve of your decision, and you did well to stay here, or perhaps not so well.’’ He says this, twiddling his thumbs. Seeing then, that he’s thus his thumbs twiddling, methinks: ‘‘Why are you twiddling thus, wait ’til I twiddle back to you,’’ and I too begin twiddling, at the same time saying to him: ‘‘That’s your opinion, sir?’’ ‘‘I’m not so foolish as to have an opinion These Days, or not to have an opinion. But since you’ve stayed behind here, get

8 Trans-Atlantyk

thee to the Legation forthwith, or don’t get thee there, and present yourself there, or not present, because if you present yourself or not present, you run the risk of causing yourself a major aggravation, or not run such a risk.’’ ‘‘Do you so reckon, sir?’’ ‘‘I reckon or not reckon. Do what you think (now he’s twiddling his thumbs), or not think (and he’s twiddling his thumbs), because ’tis your lookout (again he’s twiddling his thumbs) whether some Ill should befall thee, or should not befall thee’’ (and again he’s twiddling). I now really twiddle him and say: ‘‘So this is your advice?’’ As he’s twiddling, twiddling, he suddenly comes bouncing toward me: ‘‘You Wretched Man, you had best Perish, Vanish, and be quiet, don’t go to them, because if they latch on to you, they won’t unlatch! Listen to my advice, you had best socialize with strangers, with foreigners, disappear among foreigners, melt away, and may God protect you from the Legation, likewise from our Compatriots because they’re Evil, they’re No Good, plague-upon-them, they’ll just keep biting you ’til they bite you to death!’’ So then I say: ‘‘You think so?’’ To which he exclaims: ‘‘Oh, may God’s hand protect you from avoiding the Legation and our Compatriots living here, because if you avoid them they’ll bite you, even bite you to death!’’ He’s twiddling his thumbs, twiddling, I’m also twiddling, and from this twiddling my head is spinning, but I have to do something because my purse is empty, and in these words I thus address him: ‘‘I don’t know if I can find employment to get me through at least these

Trans-Atlantyk 9

first few months . . . Where can I find something?’’ He catches me in his arms: ‘‘No fear, we’ll figure out something, I’ll introduce you to our Compatriots forthwith, and they’ll help you or else won’t help you! There’s no shortage here of our wealthy merchants, our industrialists, our financiers, I’ll twiddle you in, twiddle in, or not . . . ’’ And he’s twiddling his thumbs. Putting our heads together. ‘‘Hence,’’ says he, ‘‘there are three partners here who have formed a Limited Liability Company, they’ve set up a Dividend-based Horse and Dog trading Business, and they might help you or not help you, and perhaps they will agree to hire you as a clerk or a helper at a salary of 100 or 150 Pesos, because they are the most respectable, the most kindhearted or not the most kindhearted of men, the Company has Sleeping Partners, with Subhastation, or without Subhastation; but the crux of the matter is to catch each one separately and to parley with him In Private, separately, because there’s a lot of Venom, Squabbling from the olden days, likewise each one is sick of the other, and would love to sicken the others even more. But the crux is that the one does not let the other out of his sight. I would thus introduce you to Baron, because he’s a generous, wonderful fellow, and won’t refuse you his favors; but what of it, because Pitskal will curse you and Pox-Upon-You to Baron, Baron will then rebuke you, puff himself up, with his airs he’ll air his grievance against you to Pitskal, while Ciumka™a will pull the wool over Baron’s and Pitskal’s eyes concerning you, perchance even besmirch you. Hence the crux of it is to pit you and Baron against Pitskal, and Pitskal against Baron.’’ (Now

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he’s twiddling his thumbs.) For a long time we palavered about this and that, all the while remembering friends from the olden days, ’til finally (it could have been two in the afternoon by now) I went with my bundles to the pension he had indicated, and there I rented a tiny little room for four pesos a day. The city like any city. Some houses very tall, one house stands low. ’Tis very crowded in the narrow little streets, vehicles a-plenty. Racket, clatter, horns blaring, roaring, the air unbearably humid. H I will never forget these my first days in Argentina. Next day, as soon as I awoke in my little room, an Old Man’s cry reached me through the wall, moans and groans, and from his lamentations I understood only ‘‘guerra, guerra, guerra.’’ Likewise newspapers with an earsplitting cry the outbreak of war were announcing, but who knew what, some said yes, others yes and no, it will come to nothing or it won’t, they’re fighting, not fighting, ’tis nothing, and ’tis Gray, Dull as is a field when ’tis raining. The day was bright and clear. I’m lost in the crowd, happy being lost, and I even say to myself: ‘‘Safe is the fish when they’re killing crawdads.’’ While out yonder they’re killing! Great swarms of people in front of the Newspaper Offices. I stepped into a cheap eatery to have a bite of something and ate a Bife for thirty centavos, and I said (still to myself ): ‘‘Safe is the siskin when they’re after the ram.’’ And out yonder they’re ramming each other! I thus went to the river, no one here, ’tis quiet, only a breeze blows, and I said to myself: ‘‘The finch chirps while the

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badger in a trap is well nigh out of his skin.’’ And out yonder they’re well nigh out of their skins . . . and beyond the Barn, beyond the Pond, beyond the Forest a merciless Scream, Howl, they’re Beating, Killing, for mercy begging, no Pardon proffering, Devil knows what else, and perhaps not even the Devil! So I say: ‘‘Why should I go to the Legation, to the Legation I won’t go at all, let the Skinny Mare die.’’ And yonder they’re Dying too. I then say: ‘‘I swear and vow by all that’s mine, I will not get mixed up in it, for ’tis none of my business, and if expire they must, let them,’’ but my eye comes to rest on a little Bug that is crawling up a blade of grass, and I see that this little Bug— in this place and time, at this very moment and on this river bank, across the ocean—is climbing, climbing, and just then the most awful fear seizes me, and so methinks I better go to the Legation, oh yes, go, go, go, Jesus and Mary, I’ll go, I better go . . . and I went. The Legation occupied an imposing building on one of the most elegant streets. When I reached this building I stopped, and, methinks, shall I go in or not go in, why go to a Bishop when I’m a heretic, an apostate from Faith, a blasphemer. And forthwith the most awful Haughtiness comes upon me, this Pride of mine that has steered me against the Church since my childhood years! because surely not for this has my Mother brought me into this world, not for this my Wisdom, my Sublimity, this Creativity of mine and the unequaled high flight of my Nature, not for this my discerning Eye, my proud Brow, my sharp passionate Ideas, so that I would sit in a simple little

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church, the church of inferior, cheaper Mass, and in a choir cheaper, more paltry, to be stupefied by middling, paltry incense alongside my simple Country-folk! Oh, no, no, not for this am I Gombrowicz that I would kneel before a dark Altar, obscure, perhaps even Foolish (oh, how they’re Beating), no, no, I won’t go there, who knows what they’ll do to me (oh, how they’re Shooting), no, I don’t want to go there, ’tis a shady, paltry Business (oh, how they’re Slaying, Slaying!). And ’midst this Slaying, ’midst this blood, ’midst this Battle, I stepped into the building. And ’tis quiet here, a huge, carpeted stairway. At the entrance the janitor greeted me with a bow, and up the stairway to the secretary he led me. On the second floor a great hall, pillared, rather murky inside, cool, sheaths of light shine only through the small panes of the stained-glass windows and settle on the moldings, stucco work and gildings. Councilor Podsrotski,* in his dark-navy-blue-black suit, in a top hat, in gloves as well, came out toward me and, tipping his top hat lightly, for the reason of my visit under his breath began inquiring. When I told him that I wish with His Excellency the Envoy to parley, he asked: ‘‘With H.E. the Envoy?’’ So I say, yes with H.E. the Minister, so he says: ‘‘With the Minister, with the Minister himself you want to speak?’’ So when I say, certainly, I would like to * The name derives, I think, from the Polish expression wypa´sc´ sroce spod ogona—a derogatory expression about a person, which means ‘‘to drop from under a magpie’s tail.’’

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parley with H.E. the Envoy, he, lowering his head to his breast, in these words replies: ‘‘You say, that with the Envoy, with the Envoy himself ?’’ So I say, yes, certainly, with the Minister, because I come with an important matter, so he says: ‘‘Ah! ’Tis not the Councilor, not the Attaché, not the Consul, but ’tis the Minister himself that you wish to see? And why? And to what purpose? And who do you know here? And who are you? And who are your friends? Who do you visit?’’ Thus inquiring, he began to Hop and skip toward me more and more briskly, ’til he finally began to frisk me and out of my pocket he pulled a string. All of a sudden a door opened at the far end, H.E. the Envoy peeked out and, since he already knew me, he beckoned: on account of this beckoning, the Councilor, dissolving in bows, wagging his rump, also waving about his top-hat, led me into the Minister’s office. H Minister Kosiubidzki, Felix, was one of the strangest people I had ever come across in my life. Lean thickish, somewhat fattish, his nose also somewhat Lean Thickish, his eye wishywashy, his fingers narrow thickish and likewise his leg narrow and thickish or fattish, while his baldness was as if brass-colored, onto which he combed his sparse black rufous hair; he liked to flash his eyeball, and ever so often he flashed it. With his behavior and good manners he displayed unusual regard for his own worth, and with every move he made a point of rendering himself honors, and likewise and continually he deeply graced

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with his presence whomever he was addressing, so one spoke with him almost on one’s knees. Without further ado I burst into tears, fell to my knees before him and kissed his hand; my services, my blood, my possessions offering, I begged him to use me at this sacred moment, according to his sacred desire and discernment, and to take my person under his command. Most graciously honoring me as well as himself by his sacred listening, he blessed me and flashed his eyeball, and then he said: ‘‘More than fifty pesos (he took out his purse) I cannot give you. I can’t give you because I don’t have it. But if you’d like to go to Rio de Janeiro and pester the Legation there, then, certainly, I’ll give you travel money and I’ll even add a little more just so you stop pestering me, because I want no literati here: they just milk you and crab at you. Go then to Rio de Janeiro, I counsel you well.’’ Imagine my Astonishment, Amazement! So I again fell at his feet and (thinking he mistook my meaning) I offered him my person. So he says: ‘‘Alright, alright, here’s seventy pesos and milk me no more, for I’m no cow.’’ I thus see that he’s dismissing me with cash; not only with cash but with Small Change! Blood rushes to my head at such a grievous insult but I say nothing. Then I say: ‘‘I see that Your Excellency takes me for small change since Your Excellency is, likewise with Small Change, dismissing me and most likely placing me among Ten Thousand literati; but I’m not only a literatus, I am Gombrowicz!’’ He asked: ‘‘Which Gombrowicz?’’ I reply: ‘‘Gombrowicz,

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Gombrowicz.’’ He flashes his eyeball and says: ‘‘Ah well, if it’s Gombrowicz, here’s eighty pesos and come no more because there’s a War on, and the Minister is busy.’’ I thus say: ‘‘A war.’’ He says: ‘‘A war.’’ I say: ‘‘A war.’’ To which he says: ‘‘A war.’’ So I at him: ‘‘A war, war.’’ Which really scared him, his cheeks paled, he flashed his eyeball: ‘‘And what? Do you have any information? Did they tell you anything? Any news? . . . ’’ but he checked himself, cleared his throat, coughed, scratched himself behind the ear, and he patted me: ‘‘Never mind, ’tis nothing, don’t be scared, we’ll conquer the enemy just like that!’’ Then he shouted even louder: ‘‘Just like that we’ll conquer him! Conquer him!!’’ He rose to his feet and shouted: ‘‘We’ll conquer him! Conquer him!’’ On hearing these shouts, and seeing that he’s risen from the armchair and is acting with such Pomp, even Swearing by all he holds sacred, I fell to my knees and, in this sacred Pomp joining forces, I shouted: ‘‘We’ll conquer, conquer, conquer!’’ He caught his breath. Flashed his eyeball. Then said: ‘‘We shall conquer him, the son of a bitch, I am telling you, and I am telling you this, so you will not say that I told you that we shall not Conquer him, because I am telling you plainly that we shall Conquer, Defeat him, because with our mighty, most magnificent hand we’ll reduce him to ashes, pulverize him, shatter him, we’ll carve him up with our Sabers, our Lances, crush him, and under our Banner as well as in this Majesty of ours, oh, Jesus Mary, oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus we’ll reduce him to a pulp, we’ll Kill him! Oh, yes, kill him, we’ll crush him, smash him to

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smithereens! What are you looking like that for? Aren’t I telling you that we shall crush him?! Can’t you see, hear, that the Minister himself, the most Eminent Envoy is telling you that we shall Crush them, can’t you see that the Envoy himself, the Minister is pacing here before you, waving his hands and telling you that we’ll Crush them! So don’t you revile me by saying that I didn’t Pace, that I didn’t Tell you, because can’t you see that I am Pacing and Telling you?!’’ Now he looked surprised, gawked at me thickheaded and said: ‘‘It is I who am Pacing here before you, Telling you!’’ Then he says: ‘‘The Envoy himself, the Minister is Pacing before you, Telling you . . . Thus you’re not a mere nobody if H.E. the Envoy is spending so much time with you, and is even Pacing before you, Telling you, even vociferating . . . Sit down, Editor, sit down. And your name, please?’’ I tell him ‘‘Gombrowicz.’’ Says he: ‘‘Why yes, yes, I’ve heard of it, heard of it . . . How would I not have heard of it since I am Pacing before you, Telling you . . . One needs to come to your assistance, my good Sir, because I know my duty with regards to this National Literature of ours, and as a minister to your assistance I must come. Hence, since you are a writer, I will charge you with writing articles for our newspapers here, praising, glorifying our Great Writers and Geniuses, for which, splitting the difference, I will pay you seventy-five pesos a month . . . because more I cannot do. Cut one’s coat according to one’s

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cloth. Cut one’s coat to suit one’s cloth! You’ll be able to praise Copernicus, Chopin, Mickiewicz . . . For God’s sake we must praise what’s Ours or they’ll gobble us up!’’ He beamed with pleasure and said: ‘‘Well said, isn’t it, and most Appropriate for me, a Minister, and likewise for you, a Writer.’’ But I said: ‘‘May God repay you, but no, no.’’ He asked: ‘‘How so? You don’t want to praise?’’ I said: ‘‘Because I’m embarrassed.’’ So he exclaimed: ‘‘How can you be embarrassed?’’ I say: ‘‘Embarrassed, because ’tis ours!’’ He flashed, flashed, flashed! ‘‘Why embarrassed, you shithead! . . . ’’ He screamed. ‘‘If you won’t praise your Own, who will praise them?’’ But he caught his breath and said: ‘‘Don’t you know every little vixen her own tail praises?’’ Then I said: ‘‘I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, Sir, but I would be very embarrassed.’’ He said: ‘‘What kind of a thickhead are you, are you utterly stupid, can’t you see there is a war on, at this moment we need Great Men at all cost because without them Devil only knows what will happen, and that is why I, the Minister, am here to enhance our Nation’s Greatness, oh, what will I do with you, perchance I must smash you in the kisser . . . ’’ But he broke off, flashed his eyeball again and said: ‘‘Wait now. So you are a Literatus? What on earth have you scribbled, what? Books maybe?’’ He called: ‘‘Podsrotski-boy, Podsrotski-boy, come here . . . ’’ When the Councilor Podsrotski came running, the minister flashed his eyeball at him, and then softly palavered with him, flashing his Eyeball at me. Hence I just hear them saying: ‘‘Shithead!’’ Then

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again: ‘‘Shithead!’’ Then the Councilor to the Minister says: ‘‘Shithead!’’ The Minister to the Councilor: ‘‘He is surely some kind of a shithead, but his Eye, his Nose look well-bred!’’ Says the Councilor: ‘‘The eye, the nose, not bad, even though he’s a shithead, and his brow looks well-bred too!’’ Says the Minister: ‘‘He is a shithead all right, no doubt about it, because you are all shitheads, I too am a shithead, shithead, they too are shitheads, who will know the difference, who knows anything, nobody knows anything, nobody understands anything, shit, shit . . . ’’ ‘‘Shit,’’ says the Councilor. ‘‘So let us give it to him!’’ says the Minister, ‘‘I will Pace here a bit, and then smack!’’ And I watch, and he starts Pacing and he’s Pacing, Pacing up and down the big hall, his brow he knits, his head he lowers, he breathes heavily, soughs, puffs himself up, then Bellows and Flashes: ‘‘This is an honor for us! An honor, because we are hosting a Great Polish Writer, perhaps the Greatest! He is our Great Writer, perhaps even a Genius! What are you gaping at, Magpie? Welcome this great shithead, that is . . . this . . . Genius of ours!’’ Now the Councilor delivers me a low bow. Now H.E. the Minister bows to me. Now I, thinking they’re mocking me, joking at my expense, and thus being greatly insulted, I want to beat up this man! But the Minister settles me into an armchair! The Councilor Podsrotski licks my boot! The Minister Envoy himself for my health inquires! While the Councilor his services offers! Thus H.E. the Envoy inquires as to my wishes and my orders! Thus the Coun-

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cilor requests that I inscribe my name in the Visitors’ Book! Thus the Minister takes me by the arm and leads me round the great hall, while the Councilor hops and skips about me! And the Minister: ‘‘This is a festival because we are hosting Gombrowicz!’’ While Councilor Podsrotski: ‘‘Gombrowicz is our guest, the Genius Gombrowicz himself !’’ The Minister: ‘‘This is our Famous Nation’s Genius!’’ Podsrotski: ‘‘The Great Man of this great Nation of ours!’’ Thusly went this strange, my strangest Happening and Business of mine! Because I knew of course that they’re shitheads and they’re taking me for a shithead, and all this is shit, shit, and I’d sooner hit those shitheads on the head . . . However this was none other than the Envoy himself, the Minister, and also the Councilor . . . hence my Timidity, my anxiety that such important Persons are venerating me and bestowing honors on me. And when in this great hall the Minister together with the Councilor are prancing about me, Honoring me, when they’re running around me, I, aware of their high Office, their position, of the importance of these shitheads, I could not easily discard or dismiss these Honors! Oh, like a plum I plumped into shit! Finally the Envoy caught his breath and said, but now more benevolently: ‘‘Well, remember you shithead, that you’ve been duly honored here by the Legation, now take care not to bring shame upon us in front of people, because we will present you to these people the Foreigners as the Great Shit Genius Gombrowicz. This is what Propaganda requires, so that they’ll know that our Nation in geniuses abounds. What about it,

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Podsrotski-boy, we’ll show them, eh?’’ ‘‘We’ll show them,’’ says the Councilor, ‘‘we’ll show them: shitheads that they are they won’t know the difference!’’ Not until back on the street did I give vent to my roused emotions! Oh, what’s this, why, whence all this, oh, what happened?! Oh, they’ve caught me again, caught me! Oh, Jesus, o, God, in this Life of mine they’ve caught me again, like a vixen in a trap! Will I ever be free of this Fate of mine? Or must I repeat my Eternal Fate, this Imprisonment of mine?! And while my Past is blowing me about like a straw, while all this bygone chaos is returning, I rear like a horse, like a lion I tremble, Roar, in fury I claw the ground and throw myself against the bars of my new prison! Oh, why on earth did I go to that accursed Legation?! Thus those shitheads took fancy to Greatness, ’tis Greatness they desire, Geniuses and great Heroes, to show off in front of people, that here we have this Genius Gombrowicz, to show how important we are, this glory of ours, our merits, what a Palace we have, what bits of furniture, what harnesses, trumpery, and trumped-up pride: and, God forbid that we should have our backsides kicked, for we have our Genius Gombrowicz! It was with this boorish nasty business that H.E. the Envoy shithead shithead wanted to pull the wool over the eyes of these people the Foreigners, rightly thinking that he’ll easily convince these Americans of it, and if he keeps bowing low before me, like dough will I rise for him before these People. This cannot be! Not on my life! And so in my terrible anger, time and again did I ditch him, dismiss him, with a cane, with a stick did I chase

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him out and away! Accursed is this Minister shithead who does not respect his Nation! Accursed is this nation that does not respect her Sons! Accursed are both the man and the Nation, which do not respect each other! And, in my frenzy, chasing out and away this Minister, all his offices, positions, honors, our times, our life, the Nation, the State shit shit shit, with a stick and a cane trouncing him, I was again dismissing this paid shithead of a Minister from his job; and when I had done laying him off fifty or sixty times, chasing him away, once more and again did I lay him off, chase him away! Then I suddenly noticed that I was making the passersby laugh as they were watching me from the corner of their eye. The critical state of my finances compelled me to action; I had to go at once to Florida Street, where I had an appointment with Cieciszowski. Florida Street, as I’ve already mentioned, is of all the city’s streets the most luxurious; there are shops, a most tasteful variety of Department stores, bakeries, cafés; ’tis barred to vehicles, filled with swarms of pedestrians, ’tis brightened by the sun, it glitters, shimmers, puffs itself up like a peacock’s tail. My inborn timidity, perhaps even some kind of Awkwardness, didn’t allow me to give Cieciszowski an accurate account of what happened with the Minister, and I just mentioned that we parted in anger. ‘‘Oh, my!’’ he exclaimed, twiddling his thumbs, ‘‘why did you go there, didn’t I tell you not to go there, though maybe you did well to go there! And ’tis just as well that you took him down a peg, or maybe Not As Well, because, oh, my, he may take you, poor devil, down a peg, down a peg, down a peg!

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You better hole up like a mouse in a hole, because if you don’t they’ll find you! Or don’t hide, don’t hide, I’m telling you, because if you hide they’ll be looking for you, and if they look for you they’ll find you.’’ And thus conversing, we’re walking along Florida Street! Riches glisten in the shop windows and tempt the eye, and there is a humming of voices, swarms of passersby, bowing, greeting. Once in a while my Cieciszowski sends a smile, or a hand greeting, or a low bow to his pals, and says softly to me: ‘‘Look, look, do you see Mrs. Rotfeder? And here’s director Pintsel, and here’s chairman Kotarzycki, hey, hello, hello, Mr. Chairman, sir! Here’s Mazik, and this is Bumcik, here’s Kulaski, and here’s Polaski! I, walking by his side, likewise courteously bow, my smiles to the right and left I do cast, and thus the snake of Florida Street shimmers, Señoritas on parade! ‘‘Look, there stands Mrs. Klejn! And here’s Lubek, an office worker.’’ Ever thicker is the swarm of people, and they stop at the shop windows, look at them, and when they leave one they forthwith approach another, and each person looks, be it at yellow-gray Ties, in fashion at 5.75, then a Third one with his wife looks at a wine-red carpet with a Design, for 350, a fourth fancies English Buckles for 99, a fifth looks at gadgets or a fan, a woman looks at silk lingerie with frothy ruffles, another one at pointed Shoes double-Nelson-style, a man fancies Persian Astrakhan Pipe Tobacco, or a Dinner Set, or else Cinnamon. So they look at a Yellow chamois leather suitcase for 350 and say: ‘‘What a suitcase!’’ ‘‘And what about this Bucket for 85, also not bad, or this Robe, or that Shovel.’’ ‘‘I’d

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buy this skullcap for 7.20.’’ ‘‘And me this sweater.’’ ‘‘I could use this Thermometer, or this Barometer.’’ ‘‘For goodness sake, this umbrella with a curved handle is 42, I’ve seen a better one yesterday, an English one for 38!’’ And thus from store to store they go on Looking at this and that and Talking, then to another store, and again that one and this one Talks and Looks. H Suddenly Cieciszowski caught me by the hand. ‘‘You were born under a lucky star! See Baron there? There stands Baron, you’ve caught Baron himself, that’s his very self in front of that shop window, and he’s alone, without his Partners, let’s go to him or not go, so we’ll talk about your job or we won’t talk! Hello, hello dear Baron, how’s your health, your successes or not successes, and here’s Mr. Gombrowicz, who, having been cut off from our country, has stayed behind and is now sharing our uncertainty and our fears, and is likewise looking for employment!’’ Baron looked at me. He then most cordially caught me in his arms! To say nothing of how delighted he was, skipping back and forth, hugging me to his breast, perchance we could have a bite, or a drink, he invites me to his home, looks for his Wife who’s gotten lost somewhere, because to his Wife he wishes to introduce me. ‘‘Stop by next Tuesday, Sir! We’ll be delighted!’’ But Cieciszowski said: ‘‘He could use some work since he’s in need, thus without further ado, gracious Baron, I direct him to you: where there is spread a-plenty, served up most generously.’’ ‘‘Of course!’’ Baron exclaimed, ‘‘he is in need? It

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will be arranged! Don’t you worry! Right away I’ll give orders today to engage the dear Sir as my secretary in my Company for a salary of one thousand or fifteen hundred pesos! Right! ’Tis done, and now let’s drink to it, we must have a bite!’’ We thus walk with Baron for a drink, and in the sun’s bright radiance everything seems set right, and I have perchance found a Protector, a Father and a King, o, thank you God, thus my life will be made easier, vanished, gone are my cares and worries, but what’s this, o, God, my God, what’s happening, why does my King, my Baron suddenly look dejected, become silent, gloomy, gone haggard before me, why is my darling little sun behind the clouds hiding? . . . Ah, that’s Pitskal, Pitskal is skipping toward us! Pitskal, Baron’s partner, was shorter than he, more thickset, and while the other was a grand, magnificent, tall, proud man, this one was as if out of a dog’s throat wrung or behind a barn found. In vain did Baron order him about and declare that ’tis me, his friend, that he’s taken into employ as an office clerk; all Pitskal did for an answer was to stick out his backside, first to me, then to Baron and, spitting, he said: ‘‘Have ya gone bonkers to take on new office workers to our Business, without consultin’ me, what sort of a moron are ya, I’ll thus chase away yer clerk, out, out, out!’’ Indignant at this awful boorishness, at first Baron could not say one word, but then: ‘‘I forbid you!’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘I forbid you! . . . ’’ To which Pitskal opened wide his trap: ‘‘Forbid yourself, not me! Who are ya forbiddin’?!’’ Baron exclaimed: ‘‘Please don’t make such a row!’’ Pitskal exclaimed: ‘‘What a softie, softie, I’ll cream that softie of yers, I’ll thrash ’im

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for ya! . . . ’’ and he’s onto me with his fists, he’ll Thrash me, kill me, possibly even trounce me, that animal, that hangman will string me up, thus will be my Undoing, my Annihilation, but what’s happening, why is my torturer stopping in his tracks, why is he not thrashing me? . . . That’s because Ciumka™a, Baron’s other partner, turned up from the side, from somewhere! Ciumka™a, a bony, fair-haired man, goggle-eyed, carrotheaded, took off his visored cap and extended to me his big, red hand: ‘‘I’m Ciumka™a!’’ Which flabbergasted Pitskal. ‘‘Help,’’ he screamed, ‘‘here I am thrashing him, while that one is sticking his paw in here, I never seen with me very own eyes a greater Moron, a Blockhead, why are ya buttin’ in, interferin’ like?’’ ‘‘I forbid you!’’ shouted Baron, ‘‘I prohibit this!’’ Now Ciumka™a, frightened by the shouting and embarrassed, stuck his big hand into his pocket, he then began fumbling with his hand in the pocket; but he instantly became embarrassed by this fumbling and, in his embarrassment, pretended to look for something in his pockets; which, even more infuriated Baron and Pitskal. ‘‘What are you looking for, you moron?’’ they shouted, ‘‘what are you looking for, you twerp, what?!’’ Until Ciumka™a, almost dead from embarrassment, red as a beet, pulled out of his pocket not only his hand but also the cork of a bottle, crumpled bits of paper, a small spoon, a shoelace, and some small, dried fish. When they saw the fish they fell silent . . . Because the fish put them in a gloomy mood. I remembered that Cieciszowski had told me about old Feuds, Discord, Venom between them, as always between Partners,

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likewise something about a Mill, a Sluice; it was exactly for this reason that, at the sight of those little fish, Pitskal almost choked and, ‘‘My Little fish, my little fish,’’ he shrieked, ‘‘ya’ll pay me for this, I’ll send ya a-beggin’ ’’; but Baron just moved his craw, swallowed saliva, adjusted his collar and said, ‘‘Inventory.’’ To which Ciumka™a replied: ‘‘The barn burned down because of the buckwheat,’’ so Pitskal looked at him askance, ‘‘there was water,’’ he mumbled, and so they stood, stood, ’til Ciumka™a scratched behind his ear; when he thus scratched behind his ear, Baron scratched his ankle, Pitskal did the same to his right thigh. Says Baron: ‘‘Don’t scratch.’’ Says Pitskal: ‘‘I’m not scratchin’.’’ Says Ciumka™a: ‘‘I wasn’t scratchin’.’’ Says Pitskal: ‘‘I’ll scratch you.’’ Says Baron: ‘‘Go ahead, scratch, scratch, that’s what you’re good for.’’ Says Pitskal: ‘‘I won’t be scratchin’ ya, let your Secretary scratch ya.’’ Says Baron: ‘‘My Secretary will scratch me when I tell him to.’’ Says Pitskal: ‘‘I’ll take yer Secretary into me service, and I’ll take him from ya to me, and he’ll be scratchin’ me when he wants to, because even though ya’s Gentry from Gentry, and I’m a Boor from Boors, he’ll be scratchin’ me for ya when I feels like it or when I don’t feels like it. He will be scratchin’ alright.’’ Says Baron: ‘‘Whether one is a Boor from Boors, or a Gentry from Gentry, you will not take this Secretary into your service, I myself will take him into service not you, and he’ll be scratching me not you.’’ Ciumka™a exclaimed, bursting into enormous bitter crying: ‘‘Oh My, Oh My, oh, so ya want all this scratchin’ fer yerselves and to me detriment, to me Loss, me Dire Need, oh, so I’ll take him from ya

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into me service, I’ll do just that!’’ And off they go pulling me, tugging at me, yanking me from one to the other, pulling, pulling, and thus they’ve pulled me to some kind of a house, there’s a small flight of stairs, and they’re pulling me up those stairs, tugging at me, yanking me from one to the other, then there’s a small door to the side with a sign ‘‘Baron, Ciumka™a, Pitskal, Horse and Dog Enterprise,’’ and behind the door a large, darkish anteroom with small chairs. On the little chairs Baron to Ciumka™a, Ciumka™a to Baron, to Pitskal, Pitskal to Ciumka™a to Baron sat me down and most courteously asked me to wait a bit, they then left for another room with a sign on the door ‘‘Business and Property Management, no Entry.’’ Left alone (for Cieciszowski had disappeared long ago) in the quietude that followed our noisy arrival, I looked around with curiosity. The peculiarity of these people (I would be hard pressed to find more peculiar ones in my whole Life), and likewise the rumpus they carried on among themselves discouraged me from having any contact with them whatsoever; but the hope of a steady and perhaps even a good income forced me to stay here. The anteroom, as I said, was somewhat dark, covered with dark wallpaper, the paper was frayed . . . here was a greasy stain . . . there a hole and another tear though patched up, fly-mottled, a candlestick with a candle in it, the wax having dripped everywhere. The floorboards splintered, worn out by walking, there in a corner an old newspaper, here a riding-whip is furtively chatting, and when a newspaper moves, rustling, ’tis likely mice are sitting under it. Forthwith a shoe begins to move and approaches

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some snuff, while a little bug, having crawled out of a cranny in the floor, is laboriously making its way towards sugar. Among this rustling I opened just a crack the door that led to the next room. The room was large, long and darkish, and there was a row of tables at which office clerks were sitting, diligently bent over Promissory Notes, Inventories, Folios, and many papers, everything piled up, thrown together so that you can hardly move because there are likewise lots of papers on the floor, scraps of paper; the Inventories are sticking out of a filing cabinet and even crawl up as high as the ceiling, creep over the windows and bury the entire office. Thus whenever a clerk moves, ’tis as if one of those mice are rustling in the papers. However, there are many other objects among the papers such as flasks, a bent piece of sheet metal, farther on a broken saucer, a spoon, a piece of a scarf, a balding brush, then a piece of brick, next to it a corkscrew, a morsel of bread, lots of shoes, also cheese, feathers, a kettle, and an umbrella. Closest to me sat an old, skinny office clerk and looked at a pen nib under a light, testing it with his finger, he must have had a gumboil for he had a wad of cotton wool in his ear; behind him was another, younger clerk with pink cheeks, counting on an abacus and at the same time biting into a sausage, farther on a lady clerk, all dolled up, coiffed, was looking at herself in a hand mirror and touching up her curls, and farther on other clerks, perhaps eight or ten of them. One was writing; another one searching for something in the Inventory. Forthwith afternoon coffee was brought in, thus cups of coffee and buns on a tray, whereupon

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all the clerks interrupted their activities and proceeded to eat, and right off, as usual, conversation resounded. I was seized with laughter at the sight of those cute little clerks Coffee Drinking! Because one could see at a glance that, having sat together in this office, drinking the same perpetual coffee followed by munching on their perpetual buns, treating each other to their old little jokes, they understood their stuff straightaway. Thus the lady clerk pushed away her curls and said ‘‘plunk’’ (she had probably said it a thousand times), whereupon the fat cashier who sat behind her exclaimed: ‘‘Oh, that’s the she-cat, cat-playing at Mom’s with a Flourish!’’ This resulted in extraordinary hilarity, all the clerks laughed, clutched their bellies! No sooner did the laughter sink somewhere into the papers when the old Accountant threateningly shook his finger . . . whereupon they clutch at their bellies because they know what he’s about to say . . . thus he says ‘‘Curly, kick-a-whorly, boom ta-ta Heap-a-whorly!’’ Thus the lady clerks got even more ecstatic, rustled their papers. Whereupon one lady clerk rested her right cheek on the cute little finger of her left hand! Whereupon another lady clerk rested her cheek on her cute little finger! . . . And then the Accountant struck the younger, pink-cheeked clerk on the back and whispered to him: ‘‘No use the tears, no use the tears, Joseph, Joseph, forsooth the penknife, the little plate, the fly, the fly! . . . ’’ I couldn’t understand why the Accountant was talking to him about tears, when the other wasn’t crying . . . but just then the pink-cheeked Bookkeeper, at the sight of the aforesaid

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cute little finger, broke into muffled sobs! Whereupon laughter seized me again: because it was obvious that for ages perhaps this cute little finger, as well as the cheek, tore at the bookkeeper’s old, festering wounds of the heart, and for years perhaps his companion has been comforting him; but instead of the Bookkeeper crying first, and the Accountant then comforting him, they mixed up the sequence of moves, and what was the end came at the beginning! The lady clerk tossed up her hankie! The Cashier sneezed! And the old accountant wiped his nose! Suddenly they saw me and, terribly embarrassed, they burrowed into their papers like mice. But forthwith I was called in by the Principals. The darkish little room into which they ushered me was likewise filled with papers, scraps of paper, in addition there stood by the wall an old iron bed, likewise a bucket, likewise a washbowl, a shotgun on the windowsill, shoes, a flytrap. Pitskal was holding up a box for Baron, while Ciumka™a was deciphering bills in the Inventory. And all three to me: ‘‘Scratch me! Scratch me! Scratch me!’’ H Many strange places and even stranger people have cropped up in my life but none as queer as this my Life’s present-day incident. The old-standing dispute between Baron, Pitskal, and Ciumka™a had its beginnings in the Mill, the said mill they had from a division in equal shares; it then led to even more heat over the leasehold of three taverns, and when they took a Distillery in subhastation from the taproom, supposedly in install-

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ments, even more cantankerousness and venom resulted. The division of funds was almost impossible to carry out because the court’s ruling was twice appealed by the three parties, the legal investigation six times deferred, ’til finally, for lack of legal proofs it was sent for local Review, the said Review showed evidence of obvious discrepancy between the first and second record of the Subhastation. Furthermore there were mutual summons concerning the Seizure of Property, threats and a wish for murder, Homicide, two summons concerning Incursion and one concerning appropriation of six pearl cufflinks and a Ring . . . likewise summons, incursions, assaults, quarrels, venom, wish to Slay, to divest of Property, devastation, Sending a-begging. Thus, when for the sake of Protecting the Subhastation, the horse and dog enterprise had to be drawn up in the Inventory, all three men participated in equal parts, and when buying dogs and horses from people, they sold them at great profit. However, in spite of great profit from this Business, the partnership was threatened with bankruptcy because, you see, there was so much old Anger, Battering, so much quarreling, mutual backbiting, bitterness, Bad Blood, and ceaseless, relentless hell-raising. However, this cantankerousness was not so much due to financial reckonings as to the divergence of their natures. Because Baron buzzes like a bumblebee, drones and dances, like a peacock puffs up his tail, flies high like a falcon; while Pitskal, like a bull charges, with his boorish boorish yelling screaming; while Ciumka™a pokes about; while Baron seemingly rides a

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carriage-and-four, gives orders, trumpets his trumpet; while Pitskal, stuffed with boorishness, gapes, his trap wide open; while Ciumka™a, cap in hand, slimes along at a snail’s pace; thus here is Baron with his airs, moods, fancies, thus Pitskal wants to hit you in the kisser or take off his pants, thus Ciumka™a fawns or dawdles . . . Hence one would drown the other in a spoon of water, in this ceaseless flow of Lawsuits, summons, quarrels, in their uninterrupted, fierce relations, to wit one with the other in a mish-mash, in gallimaufry churned, squashed together, perchance one cannot live without the other, like inside old Cheese, inside an old Shoe like some awful, crooked Toes, yet just with each other! Hence with themselves! Hence between themselves! And they’ve forgotten the whole world, they’re just with each other, between themselves, inbred, and they’ve collected so much junk from the olden days, so many memories, grudges, sundry words, corks of bottles, old flasks, shotguns, cans, rags of all kinds, bones, stakes, saucepans, scraps of sheet metal, tufts of hair, so that if a stranger were to approach them, he could not predict what they would tell him or do to him: because a cork or a flask unwarily mentioned would instantly remind them of what’s Past yet Festering and twirling like a church weathervane. Hence, if not for the old fish that had fallen out of Ciumka™a’s pocket, if not for the Inventory and Leg scratching, I would surely not have been hired by them as an office clerk. But probably on account of some small little flask or a small crate, instead of the one thousand or fifteen hundred pesos that Baron

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had promised, they allowed me a salary of only eighty-five pesos. Likewise, the oldest Clerks who went to the Principals with any business or records, never knew, you see, what was cooking, what decision Pitskal would render to Baron, Baron to Ciumka™a, Ciumka™a to Baron to Pitskal. Hence there were many directives, orders, much business, be it Horses in transfer, be it rewriting of a mortgage, further—a warranty, division of dividends, Dogs as collateral, just the Bulldogs, the taproom, execution of such; they are thus writing, scribbling records, Accounts, giving summons, executing them, bidding, further—they’re Mortgaging or Subhasting; but what of it, you know, when behind it, under it, there’s an ancient little herring, or Pitskal’s bun that Baron had bitten off seventeen years ago. When I presented myself for work next morning and sat among the Clerks, now my Colleagues, the difficulties of my duties became clearly apparent. The clerks immersed in their scraps of paper, intent on their accounts, frantic with their work, their activities, didn’t even want to look at me, a stranger; while their mutual stings, their old pots, were inexplicable and incomprehensible to me. Popatski, the old Accountant, gave me Records to log in, but devil only knows if there was any need for this logging; he was of a rather short stature, very skinny, with dark glasses, hornrimmed, desiccated like a mummy, with sparse hair that encircled his big, bald head like a wreath; furthermore, he had long, skinny fingers. As he’s watching over my work, once in a while he corrects a small letter, scratches behind his ear, or wipes his nose, brushes a fleck of dust off his clothes; but he’s

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most keen on throwing some bread crumbs out the window for the little sparrows. Oy, one can see that the Accountant is a kind old soul, kind old soul to the marrow of his bones, and even though his dawdling and his extraordinary petty-mindedness often made me want to laugh, I avoided anything that might offend the kind old man; I even partook of his snuff with its oldmousy smell and with who knows what kind of mushroom flavored, which had the odor of his cashmere waistcoat. But to tell the truth, I was in no mood to laugh. Because even though I had attained a modicum of secure livelihood, the set of conditions and circumstances such as: Unfamiliar Country, the strangeness of the city, lack of friends or trusted companions, the quirkiness of my work . . . filled me with anxiety; add to this the mighty Battle across the water and bloodshed, and many persons, my friends and family, who knows where they all were, what they were doing, perhaps giving up their souls to God. Thus, tho’ far away, across the water, one was somewhat more circumspect, spoke more softly, moved more gently not to elicit some evil, and cowered like a hare in a balk. That’s why, spotting a small bread crumb on an inkwell, I often gazed at it, even touched it with the tip of my pen. However, it was my business with the Legation that bothered me the most. It was not for nothing that H.E. the Envoy had celebrated me with Pomp; and while I’m sitting here behind my desk, Records logging, they are surely doing their stuff, and who knows if they aren’t up to doing something with me, tho’ without my knowledge. I’m thus sitting, writing, but likewise won-

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dering if they are up to something involving me, what are they treating me to, using me for. Indeed, my forebodings did not mislead me, because when in the evening to my pension I returned, I was presented with a big bouquet of red-and-white fuchsias from the Minister and with it a letter from the Councilor. He, the Councilor, was informing me, in words most cordial, that he will fetch me tomorrow to take me for the evening to the painter Ficinati, who by the local Writers and Artists will be honored. Besides the letter and flowers, I was presented with two other bouquets contributed by the local my kinfolk Businessmen, both with bunting and appropriate inscriptions. Besides this, little children likewise arrived and below my window sang a canticle. Oh, the Devil of it! Just as I want to lie low, they’re raising me high on a candelabrum! The Pension’s proprietress, surprised by the plenitude of adulations, wouldn’t hear of my continuing to stay in my little cubbyhole, and she moved me to the best room: and thus at this my difficult, dangerous time, instead of staying in a small room, I found myself in a big salon with two windows. The news about this extraordinary, God have mercy, eminence, greatness of mine has already spread as fast as the flight of an arrow among all my Compatriots: next morning at the office they received me with very low bows, and even all conversation, jokes ceased within my presence. Oh, the Devil of it, the Devil! Thus the celebration of Pomp became more and more intense, and H.E. the Envoy, evidently against my wishes and disregarding my vehement displeasure,

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had his own way and spread the Pomp in all directions. Poxupon-him, why did I venture within his sight! And besides, ’tis a dangerous business! One can raise such shenanigans in ordinary times, but when there’s Murder, Slaughter, ’tis better to sit quietly and wait ’til it ends, and take care not to bring down some evil upon oneself. Thus I swore and decided I would not go to that reception, nor would I suffer my person to any further holy Pomp, oh, so Stupid perchance and Worthless. Yet the crux of the matter was this: if I were to oppose H.E. the Envoy’s explicit wishes, everybody would perchance consider me a traitor, which, in the current configuration of conditions, was extremely dangerous. Nevertheless sweet is one’s country-folk’s adulation to a man who since the earliest days of his childhood was met with naught but disdain . . . while now, as if at a good fairy’s bidding, they begin to bow their heads before him and raise their hats. Thus accursed, false, and worthless as hell is the adulation! Yet it is a holy, blessed, and rightful adulation because this is my Brow, my Eye, these are my Ideas, as well as my truth and the sincerity of my heart, my song, and that dignity of Mine! This is my right, this is my mantle, this is my crown! And why should I look a gift horse in the mouth?! Oh, I will thus perchance go to the said gathering, and I will there allow them to do whatever unto me, and I swear by the Almighty, by my Mother before the Almighty, before the Altar, that whosoever raises his hat to me does no evil whatsoever, on the contrary, he acts with the best intentions and most righteously!

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Hence, you shitheads, go ahead and Connive and Play the Wise, and go pecking for your own gain like hens. While I— whatever is born of your dumb and conniving Nature—will accept according to my Nature, and when you feed me shit, I will partake of it as Bread and Wine and I will be satiated. Thus, when like a true master I will wax brilliant at that reception, when by the foreigners I will be hailed and recognized as a Master, no longer will I be frightened by H.E. the Envoy’s foolery, and he too will perforce respect me . . . Mount then, mount that horse that is being offered you, and you will go far! I’ll go, I’ll go then! Whereupon, on returning to my pension, I forthwith opened my trunk and, while shaving, changing, putting on my best, I had a most remarkable certainty of this Mastery of mine, and I knew that like a Master I must tower, reign over everyone. Oh, the Master, Master, Master, and Master! But hark my astonishment, my surprise! Because I suddenly hear this behind me: ‘‘Praise be to our great Master, praise to our Master!’’ I jumped and cried out, thinking ’twas some scoffer’s voice, or perchance it has issued forth from within me, but here was Councilor Podsrotski in pinstriped trousers and in tails, with a well-pressed ascot, bowing low before me: ‘‘Your Venerable Sir! At the behest of H.E. the Envoy in a cabriolet I have here arrived. Let us go then!’’ The sound of a blatant deception thus suddenly materializing before me was like a slap in the face! Oh, why is this shithead, who takes me for a shithead, calling me Master? We thus seat ourselves in the cabriolet. We ride in the cabriolet, and

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even though we’re most profusely paying tribute and honoring each other, forsooth knowing that he knows that I know that he knows that I know, and shit, shit, shit, we most deeply disdain each other; and thus with these tributes and shit we arrive at the house. And there, no sooner have I dismounted the cabriolet when a bunch of my Country-folk run up to me with their ‘‘hail, hail,’’ ‘‘welcome, welcome,’’ and ‘‘glory, fame’’; they’re thus handing me flowers, thus celebrating me as if ’tis Christmastime; and among them Baron; likewise Pitskal; farther on Cieciszowski and likewise Ciumka™a and the Cashier, the Bookkeeper and Miss Zofia in a yellow damask garment. On they continue honoring me! Next to me the Councilor most politely bows to the right and to the left, I likewise bow, greet, and thus among these tributes we enter the house. And there ’tis quiet. H I found myself in a large hall; many people here, some standing, some sitting; much eating of petits fours, wine drinking from small glasses, wine glasses in hands; here a woman was reaching her hand for a wine glass, somewhere else three or four men were looking at a book or a bottle; elsewhere some were seated in a circle, conversing. And actually not a hum of voices or a hubbub but an extraordinary quietude, not for lack of conversation and even laughter, but the conversations, laughter, exclamations instead of being somewhat louder were actually soft and subdued, likewise there was a strange sluggishness in their movements as if of fish in a pond. The Councilor, most

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cordially bent in half, fanning himself with a handkerchief, leads me to the Host and introduces me, extolling me as the Master Great Polish Renowned Genius Gombrowicz. The host, a plump, rotund man, receives the Councilor’s fanfare with a low bow, but doesn’t really know how to Honor me, in gambols and civility dissolving . . . but a lady, a thin small Blonde approaches him, so he begins conversing with her and forgets about us. Thusly we’re standing. But then the Councilor leads me to an old man, skinny, gray-haired, who is perchance a more illustrious guest, and with pomp and fanfare he introduces me to him—so much so that the old man bows and honors me as best he can . . . but what of it, forthwith he forgets us because his shoelaces became untied. So we go to a third man, well built, grayish-haired, and this one clutches his head and ‘‘what an honor’’ exclaims . . . but he picks up a petit four, eats it and forgets. And I’m thus standing with the Councilor in the center, don’t say much, and behind us our other Compatriots Countryfolk are standing likewise and saying little. Saying little. ‘‘Just wait,’’ says the Councilor, ‘‘we’ll show them yet.’’ We’re thus standing, and next to us other Guests are standing, perhaps one hundred persons. To wit, richly, neatly attired, because their shirts are silk or cambric for thirteen, fourteen, or even fifteen pesos, ties, cravats, and stylish lorgnettes, likewise pumps, farther on narrow, rimmed heels, hankies, fancy makeup, high boots English-style for twenty or thirty pesos. Chiefly, though, the men’s socks hit the eye, and they most keenly show off these socks, pulling up their trouser legs; while the ladies scrutinize

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one another’s hats. Thus one man claps another on the back. One man tenderly embraces another, ‘‘amigo, amigo,’’ ‘‘que tal,’’ ‘‘que es de tu vida, que me cuentas,’’ but regardless of this tenderness, cordiality, their conversation keeps dwindling or fizzling out because while one is talking to the other, in his distraction or forgetting, he ceases to listen, forthwith his Sock he scrutinizes. Thus they say: ‘‘Has that Review come out?’’ ‘‘They paid me fifty pesos for my article.’’ ‘‘How are you, how are you? So what’s new?’’ ‘‘How much was that building site?’’ ‘‘I bought myself a pair of socks.’’ Suddenly they all raise their arms and clutching their heads loudly exclaim: ‘‘Oh, what’s this we’re talking about? Oh, why don’t we know how to talk?! Oh, why don’t we respect each other, pay each other tributes?! Oh, why so shallow, so shallow?!’’ They forthwith skip to each other, bestow Honors on each other, one calls the other ‘‘Maestro, maestro,’’ and ‘‘Gran Escritor,’’ and ‘‘Que Obra,’’ and ‘‘Que Gloria,’’ but what of it because ’tis all fizzling out, and in their distraction, they’re again scrutinizing their Socks. ‘‘Just wait,’’ says the Councilor, ‘‘wait . . . We’ll show them yet!’’ But we’re just standing. Then, pale and sweating, the Councilor whispers to me: ‘‘Show those shitheads something, you shithead, or else it’ll be embarrassing for us!’’ I say to him: ‘‘You, shithead, what will I show them?’’ While My people are standing and realizing that no one is paying attention to me, they’re thinking me a shithead, they’re mad as hell, might want to drown me in a spoon of water! To hell with it, hell, hell! What the hell?! Perchance something is Not Right! And suddenly I

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see new people arriving, and they’re not mere nobodies, because forthwith Bows and Tributes are wafting toward them. Hence first came a lady in an ermine cape, with ostrich, peacock feathers and a big purse, next to her a few Sycophants, behind the Sycophants a few Secretaries, farther along a few Scribes and a few minor Clowns who were beating small drums. Likewise among them a man Dressed in Black, obviously more notable, because when he entered, voices were heard: ‘‘Gran escritor, maestro,’’ ‘‘Maestro, maestro . . . ’’ and in their admiration they would perchance have fallen to their knees; but they were eating petits fours. Forthwith a circle of listeners rolled out, while in their center he was Solemnizing with great Pomp. This man (and surely this was the first time in my life that I beheld such a strange man) had been extremely pampered, and was now pampering himself even further. In a calfskin coat, behind large dark glasses as if behind a fence, screened from the whole world, round his neck a silk scarf with half-pearl polkadots, on his hands black cambric, half-fingered gloves, on his head a black half-rimmed hat. Thusly wrapped and isolated, he repeatedly nipped from a narrow flask, or wiped his brow and fanned himself with a black, zephyrlike hankie. Lots of papers in his pockets, scripts that he kept losing, books under his arms. Of exceptionally fine intelligence which he kept refining, distilling, he was so intelligently intelligent in his every statement that he elicited women’s and men’s admiring lip smacking (though they kept scrutinizing one another’s Socks and ties). He continued to lower his voice, but the lower it went the louder it

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actually sounded, because the others, lowering their voices, listened to him more intently (even though they weren’t listening); and thus he in his Black Hat seemed to lead his bevy into Eternal Silence. Checking his books, his notes, losing them, rolling in them, sinking into them, he would embellish his ideas with infrequent quotes and thusly frolic with them, but solely to himself, as if in seclusion. And thus fussing with his papers and his ideas, he was becoming more and more intelligently intelligent, and this intelligence of his, by itself multiplied and a-straddle upon itself became so Intelligent that oh, Jesus Mary! Now Pitskal, Baron into my ear: ‘‘Go, go for it!’’ Likewise the Councilor on my other side: ‘‘Go, go for it, go for him, get him!’’ I say: ‘‘I’m not a dog.’’ Whispered the Councilor: ‘‘Get him because ’tis embarrassing, because ’tis their Most Famous Writer, and it won’t do for them to Celebrate him with Pomp while a Great Polish Writer Genius is in the room! Bite him, you shithead, bite him you genius, or else we’ll bite you! . . . ’’ Thus my whole bevy is standing behind me . . . I realize that there’s no way around it—bite him I must or my Country-folk won’t leave me in peace; and if I were to bite this Bull I would become the Lion on the field. But how to bite him when the beast is marzipanning, marzipanning as if from a book ’til it’s nauseating, and he’s becoming more and more intelligently intelligent, and more and more finely refined . . . Thus I said to my neighbor, and rather loudly so he would hear me:

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‘‘I don’t like it when Butter is too Buttery, Noodles too Noodly, Millet too Millety and Grits too Gritty.’’ In the general quietude my response like a trumpet sounded and turned everyone’s attention on me, while the said Rabbi interrupted his celebrating and setting his spectacles on me watched with them from within his darkness; he then softly asked his neighbor—who is he? . . . His neighbor said that he is a Foreign Writer, and thus disconcerted a little, the Rabbi asked if he is an Englishman, a Frenchman, or perchance a Dutchman; but his neighbor told him he is a Pole. ‘‘A Pole,’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘a Pole, a Pole, a Pole . . . ’’ and, adjusting his hat forthwith, the Rabbi very fussily kinked his leg, then fumbled about in his notes, his papers, and said, but not to me, to his Own People: ‘‘They say here that butter is buttery . . . the Idea is, indeed, interesting . . . an interesting idea . . . Too bad ’tis not quite new because Sartorius has already said this in his Bucolics.’’ They began smacking their lips, his reply savoring like a superfine quality marzipan. However, while smacking, they seemed to disdain their own smacking and for this very reason their lip smacking was fizzling out. When he turned to His People, I, in my anger, turned to Mine and said: ‘‘To hell with what Sartorius said, when it is I who am Speaking?!’’ Hence my people applauded me forthwith: ‘‘Hail, hail to our Master! Well did he snap back! Long live Genius Gombrowicz!’’ Thus they were applauding, yet they seemed to disdain their applause . . . but forthwith it all fizzled out. Thereupon the

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other rummaged in his books, his papers, much twisting his leg about, still addressing only his Own: ‘‘They say here what’s Sartorius to me when it is I Speaking. Not at all a bad idea, could be served with raisin sauce, the trouble is that Madame de Lespinasse has already said something similar in one of her Letters.’’ Again they smack their lips, they savor, yet their Smacking, Savoring they disdain . . . and in their distraction ’tis all fizzling out. I thus turn to my Own to really give it to him, to bite him so he won’t feel like barking anymore! But I see forthwith: my followers are as red as fire; thus red as a beet is the Councilor, red are Pitskal and Baron, while Cieciszowski is intensely blushing up to his ears, and he’s thus standing! O God, what’s this, why have they so suddenly gone red, just a moment ago they forsooth Adored me, whence such a change . . . yet naught, they’re standing, blushing . . . I feel like somebody has hit me in the mug because of my Country-folk’s Blushing, which in turn made me Blush so that I suddenly turned red in front of the people and stood there as if stripped to my Waist! Oh, the devil of it, the devil! Even my ears turned red! Methinks this is my Torment, that I, like a shithead, red, and as if cap in hand I’m standing barefoot by a country fence; and the worst of it is that ’tis not from my own embarrassment but from others people’s Blushing, even though ’tis my own Country-folk’s. Thus out of fear, that since these my shitheads who take me for a shithead, I’ll appear like a shithead in front of

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those other shitheads, and in my wish to ruin the other shitheads, I shouted: ‘‘Shit, shit, shit! . . . ’’ He replied: ‘‘ ’Tis not at all a bad Idea and good when flavored with mushrooms, just fry it up a bit and baste with a little cream; but too bad that it has already been spoken by Cambronne . . . ’’ and, closing himself off in his calfskin coat, he went on capriciously twisting his leg. I was left wordless! Because I had lost my tongue! Oh, the scoundrel, he struck me dumb so I lacked for words, because what was mine is no longer Mine, perchance ’twas Filched! I thus stand in front of all those people while from behind me my people are poking me, pulling at me, pulling me away, and perchance they’re red, red . . . While here, in front of me, the others are applauding their rare bird, though at the same time, they somehow seem to disdain their applause, all the while one another’s socks, shirts, cufflinks scrutinizing. Thus disregarding everything, abandoning everything, escaping from my shame, my embarrassment, I begin to walk across the entire hall to the door, and I’m fleeing! I’m fleeing, because to hell with it all, and the devil, devil, devil take it all! I’m escaping, fleeing! Suddenly, when in my blatant escape I almost reach the door, I’m again mad as hell, hell, and I’m thinking why the hell are you escaping, why escaping! I turn around and return, I walk the whole length of the hall, and they all part in front of me! Oh, the devil of it, devil, devil, Satan! I thus walk, and would have smashed those kissers! But,

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when I reached the wall I turned around again and back to the door I began to walk because methinks: better not smash them. When I almost reached the door I turned around again (because my Walk has turned into some kind of a promenade across this hall), and I again walk across the hall . . . Thus a general consternation, mugs gaping, they look, perchance they take me for a halfwit, but to hell with it, to hell, I care for nothing, and I Walk as if I’m here alone, as if there’s no one here! And my walk gets stronger, more Powerful . . . and thus the devil of it, the devil, and I Walk and Walk and Walk, I simply Walk, and Walk and Walk . . . And thus I Walk! They’re watching with alarm, because perchance nobody at any reception has ever Walked like this . . . hence by the walls they crouch like scared rabbits, this one and that one has under a piece of furniture crawled, or barricaded himself behind a piece of furniture . . . and I simply Walk, Walk, and not just Walk, but I walk so that my Walk is like what the hell, perchance I’ll smash everything to bits . . . Oh, Jesus, Mary! Forthwith Mine not mine their tails between their legs, they throw in the towel, they watch, while I Walk and keep Walking, Walking, and my Walk resounds as if on a bridge, the devil of it, the devil, and I don’t know what I’ll do with this Walk, because I’m Walking, Walking, I’m Walking as if up a hill, Walking, and ’tis hard, hard, up a mountain, up a mountain, oh, what is this Walk, oh, what am I doing, oh, perchance like a Madman I’m Walking and Walking and Walking, they’ll forsooth take me for

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a Lunatic . . . but I’m Walking, Walking . . . and the devil, devil, I’m Walking, Walking . . . Then suddenly I notice that someone by the fireplace has likewise begun to walk, and he’s Walking and Walking, and he’s Walking, Walking so that when I Walk, he likewise Walks. No sooner do I walk from wall to wall than he walks to the side from the fireplace to the window . . . and when I walk he likewise Walks . . . I’m mad as hell: why is he bothering me, what does he want, perchance he’s mimicking me? . . . why is he Walking with me? But I can’t stop my Walking. Hence, out of sheer fright they would have surely thrown him out and me too, head over heels and out the door! . . . But, even though they’re scared, they’re also angry and forsooth they disdain both their own anger and fear, ’til all is fizzling out . . . and thus, although one has paled, another knit his brow, a third one even raised his fist, at the same time they’re eating petits fours, buns with ham, and one says to another: ‘‘Has that review come out?’’ ‘‘I’ve purchased Tiles for myself . . . ’’ ‘‘I’m publishing a new volume of Poetry . . . ’’ Hence they’re gabbing, gabbing, even though they’re angry, perchance frightened, but I also notice that they’re jeering and, even though one holds a bun, another perhaps a wine glass, and behind the stools, under the stools, they’re angry, they’re gabbing, they’re frightened, but perchance they’re also jeering . . . but I’m Walking, Walking, and he is likewise Walking nearby, Walking, oh, the devil of it, the devil! . . .

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Then methinks, what is this, how so, why is this man dogging my footsteps? . . . and I looked at him more closely . . . I looked at him and I see: a fairly tall, strapping Dark-haired man, actually his countenance is not dimwitted but, indeed, is rather noble . . . But his lips are red! His lips, I tell you, are Red, painted Red, Carmine! And thus he’s walking with his Red Lips, Walking, Walking! And ’tis as if somebody has smacked me in the kisser! I turned as red as a lobster! Thus I, as if scalded, red, direct my Walk, the devil, devil, toward the door and out the door, and oh, I’m no longer Walking, Walking but Fleeing instead . . . I’m Fleeing as if chased by the devil, by Satan himself ! H Accursed is Mankind’s perversion! Accursed this swine of ours soiled in mud! Accursed this slough of ours! Hence the one who Walked there, walked, with whom I walked was not a bull but a cow! A man who, while being a man, doesn’t want to be a man but instead chases after men, Runs after them like he’s stripped to his Waist, it is them he adores oh, loves them so, his passions inflamed he desires them, is tempted by them, he wheedles, sweet-talks and fawns over them, the natives here bestow on him the disdainful name: puto. When I saw those lips that were bleeding with feminine rouge although Male, I couldn’t have the shadow of a doubt that my fate has put this Puto in my way. It was with him that I had Walked, Walked in front of everybody like a couple forever coupled!

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No wonder then that like a Madman I fled down the stairs from my shame. But as I’m thus running along the street I hear someone running behind me, and thus running I hear someone running behind me; none other than Puto, who catches me by the sleeve. ‘‘Oh!’’ he calls out. ‘‘I understand your contempt, and I know you’ve discovered my secret (and his lips are reddening), but know that you have a Friend in me and an Admirer, because with your walking you have defeated everyone . . . And I have likewise begun to Walk with you to come to your aid, and that you would not be alone against everyone . . . Let’s Walk then, let’s Walk!’’ (Saying this he took me under the arm, and with his masculine yet feminine breath he was searing me.) I ducked away from him, because in my confusion and stupefaction I no longer knew what he wanted or desired, perchance even Lusted after, and furthermore ’twas embarrassing in front of people (even though the street is empty). But he burst out laughing, and like a female shrilly, squeakily calls out: ‘‘Don’t be afraid, you’re already too old for me, I only take up with Boys!’’ Thusly spurned, I pushed him away in anger, but he tenderly cuddled up to me: ‘‘Let’s go, go, Walk with me, we’ll Walk a bit together! . . . ’’ I said nothing to this. But, since we were walking together along the street, he began to tell me about himself. Thus in a whisper he tells me all, and I’m listening. Hence this man, a Mestizo perchance, a Portuguese man, born in Libya of a Persian Turkish mother, Gonzalo is his name; exceedingly Rich, he rises from bed about eleven in the morning

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or at noon and drinks coffee, he then goes out into the street and there he walks, after Boys or Youths. When he spots one, he forthwith walks up to him and asks him direction to some street; having thusly began, he chats about this and that, just to figure out whether he can incite him to sin for two, five, or even ten Pesos. For the most part, in fear and trepidation, he won’t dare to talk about it or they’ll send him packing and, as if rapped on the knuckles, he’ll walk away. He will then go after another Boy, Lad or Young Fellow that catches his eye . . . and then again, you know, asking about a street, conversing, or else about Games or Dances he begins talking, and all this to tempt the Lad for five or ten pesos; but the Boy will say something sharply, or spit. He’ll then take to his heels, but all a-fire. Thus he’ll walk up to another Dark-haired or Fair-haired one, conversing, enquiring. And when he’s tired, he’ll go home to rest, and then, having rested a bit on a couch, he’ll go back to the street to search and walk about, converse, enquire, be it with an Artisan, or a Workman, or an Apprentice, or a Dishwasher, or a Soldier, or a Sailor. For the most part with anxiety and fear, no sooner he’ll approach than Retreat again; or else, you know, he’ll follow one who will then walk into a store or he’ll lose sight of him, and ’tis all for naught. Thus he’ll go home again tired, sapped, though all a-fire and, having had a bite and rested on the couch, he’ll race to the street to spot and converse with some Boy, provided he’s well built. When thus he’ll grab hold of one and agree upon two, five, or ten Pesos, he’ll forthwith lead him to his apartment, and there, having locked the door, he’ll take off his jacket, tie,

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pants, throw them on the floor, strip to his Waist, dim the light and spray Perfume. But forthwith the Young fellow hits him in the kisser, goes for the closet to scoop up Gonzalo’s underwear or grab his money. Frozen in terrible fear, Puto does not dare to shout, lets him take everything and suffers painful blows. From these Blows and Punches his fire is even greater! Thus when the Young fellow leaves, he’s again onto the street, fired up, a-flame, enraptured, but likewise scared, exhausted, and on he runs after Journeymen, young Artisans, Soldiers or Sailors; but no sooner he approaches them than he retreats, because although his lust is great, his fear is greater than his lust. By now the night is late and the streets are emptying: thus to his home Puto returns, strips to his waist, and in his loneliness his tired bones on the bed he cuddles in order to rise again on the morrow, drink coffee and chase after the Young. And on the morrow he rises again, his pants, jacket he puts on, and again chases after the Young. And the day after, having from his bed arisen, again onto the street he goes to chase after the Boys. Thus I say: ‘‘How is it possible, you wretched man, that an Artisan or a Journeyman, or a Soldier would succumb to your temptation, since all you can arouse is his repugnance and aversion to your charms?’’ No sooner did I say this than he exclaimed, obviously, very much offended: ‘‘You’re mistaken, because my eyes are large and burning, my hand is white, my foot is delicate!’’ And forthwith he ran ahead a few steps, mincingly displaying his figure with twists and curtsies in a vigorous manner. But then he said: ‘‘After all they’re in need, even of

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small change.’’ ‘‘Why then,’’ I said, ‘‘why then don’t you give them more money, instead of just two, five, or ten Pesos, since you’re rich and it costs you so much effort to entice any one of them?’’ He replied: ‘‘Look at my clothes. I walk about as if I were an ordinary Store Clerk or a Barber, and my shirt cost only three Pesos, all this in order not to reveal my Wealth; because by now I would have been ten times strangled, or cut up with a Knife, or my Head made mincemeat; and if I were to give a Boy more Pesos he’d forthwith ask for more, to say naught of breaking into my house, Threatening, Persecuting, just to squeeze out more, to swindle me. That’s why, even though I own a palace, I pretend to be my own butler. I am my own butler in my palace!’’ H At this point he exclaimed in a desperate voice, yet shrilly: ‘‘Accursed, accursed is my Fate!’’ But forthwith, raising his hands, rather soft little hands, to the heavens, he shouted shrilly, piercingly: ‘‘Blessed, oh, sweet, wonderful is my fate and I desire no other!’’ In mincing steps he strides forth through the air, while I next to him at a trot as if in a horse cart. With his large, watery, languid eye he’s eyeing to the right, to the left, while next to him I am like a Horse by a Mare! He in turn bursts forth with pearly titter, then large and womanly tears he sheds, while I am, you know, as if at a Tartar wedding! Suddenly he skips into a side street and he’s off to the chase because he has spotted a Soldier . . . but forthwith he slows, hides behind the corner of a building, because a Journeyman is passing by . . . or else he skips

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from behind the corner of a building after a Store Clerk, then again he slows, looks around, skulks as if between country fences, because a young, stalwart Dishwasher just went by . . . And thus, tossed about by young Boys, as if by Dogs torn in all directions, to the right and left he races, gives chase, and I behind him . . . because he’s carrying me off ! And his Dark, Black sin seems to bring me some relief in this terrible shame of mine, of which I ate my fill at the reception. And in this night, in sin, we run onto a plaza where the English have built a tower: and there a hill drops down toward the river, while the city descends to the harbor, and there is the water’s soft lapping like a song amid the trees of the plaza . . . Many Sailors are there. But she who has just been chasing one of them stops, as if struck by lightning. ‘‘Do you see this Young One, the Fairhaired one, standing ahead of us? This is perchance a miracle, perchance a lucky omen! I love him above all others, I’ve chased after him, chased him a few times already but each time I’ve lost sight of him. Oh, what good fortune, what joy that I’m seeing him again, after him then, after him, oh, after him I run again!’’ And, paying no attention to anything, he sped after the Youth; and I after him! From afar I saw little of this Fair-haired Boy, just his jacket, his head flitted by . . . but I see that he’s making his way toward the gate of a cheap, folksy entertainment called ‘‘Japanese Park’’ that glows on one side of the plaza with garish lamps, and there he stops in the light of the glittering lanterns hung on staffs and poles. Thus he stands there as if

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waiting for someone. While she ran like a Weasel in between the trees on the plaza and, having taken cover in their shadows, she thence began to long for him and sigh. H Hence methinks: what is this, where am I, what am I doing? And I would have taken off long ago, but I feel sorry about abandoning my sole companion. Because he was my Companion. Except that, while he’s standing thus with me under a tree, I feel a bit awkward, neither fish nor fowl. Hence, short black masculine hair on his hand, but his hand his Cute Little Hand is Plump, White . . . and surely his foot too . . . and even though from shaven stubble his cheek is dark, yet this cheek wheedles, cajoles as if not dark but actually white . . . and likewise his Leg though Masculine, ’tis as if it wants to be a Cute Little Leg, and in queer hops it wheedles . . . and although his head that of a man in his prime, hair line receding, wizened, this head seems to be ducking away from itself, and a cute little head it desires to be . . . Thus he seems to rebuff himself and to transform himself in the quietude of this night ’til one knows not whether he is a He or a She . . . and perchance, being neither this nor that, he has the semblance of a Creature rather than of a man . . . He lies in ambush, he, the rascal, stands, says nothing, taciturnly watches that Boy of his. Thus methinks what the devil Werewolf and why am I here with him when he brings shame on me, likewise my disgrace at the Reception was his doing, oh the hell with it, by Satan, even by the Devil himself, I will not in any

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case abandon him, because he walked with me withal, and now we are Walking together. Of a sudden an older man with grayish hair stepped up to the aforesaid boy; seeing this, Puto got terribly perturbed, started making signs to me and said: ‘‘Oh, the Curse and Ill Fortune of mine! Who is this old fart, what does he want from the boy, perchance they’ve made a date here, and he’s going to treat him! . . . Go, listen to what they’re saying to each other . . . go, listen, because I’m dying of jealousy, go, go . . . ’’ His hot whisper almost singed my ear. Coming out from under the trees I approached the youth, who was of medium height, fair-haired, his foot, his hand medium-sized, and oh, his eyes, teeth, mop of hair, oh, rascal, rascal Gonzalo! But what do I hear?! My own Native Tongue! As if scalded I quickly jumped away from them and to Gonzalo skipped: ‘‘Do what you wish, but I’m leaving and want nothing to do with this, because these are my countrymen, perchance a Son with his Father! I want nothing to do with this and I am going home!’’ He caught me by the hand. ‘‘Oh!’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘God has put you in my path, my friend, and you will not refuse me your help! And since they’re your countrymen, it will be easy for you to make their acquaintance! You’ll also introduce me to them forthwith, and I’ll be your friend for all time, I’ll even give you ten, twenty, thirty thousand, or even more! Let’s go then, follow them, they’re entering the park!’’ I wanted to beat him up! But he sauntered up to me and

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snuggled: ‘‘Let’s go, let’s go, we’re in truth walking together, come, come, let’s go, let’s go!’’ And speaking thus, he went ahead, while back on my Walk I resumed the beat of my Walk, and Let’s Walk, Walk, Walk! We ran into the park! And there trolleys rumbled from behind a rock, elsewhere clowns or empty bottles, here merry-go-rounds and swings, and a trampoline, farther on there is circling on wooden horses, target shooting, an artificial grotto, and curved mirrors, and everything is spinning, you know, flying, shooting ’midst the din of fun and games, ’midst Chinese lanterns, skyrockets, and fireworks! And people are walking about not knowing what to do, one watches a swing, another a clown, and thus from the mirror to the bottle he walks and gapes at this or that; everything is speeding, vibrating, thus here a Monster, there a Magnetizer! The fun and games are thus in full swing, the Swings sway, the merry-go-rounds spin chasing their tails, while people walk about, and walk, and walk, and walk, and walk, be it from the Swings to the Merry-goround, or likewise from the Merry-go-round to the Swings. Thus the Merry-go-rounds are spinning. Swings are swaying. And people just Walk about. The Mirrors tempt them with Chinese lanterns, the Bottles shout with the voice of a barker, and thus, if not the Bottles then ’tis the Trolley that dashes out with a din, or a Lake in the artificial grotto, or a Clown; generating glitter and din, and all kinds of fun and games, Entertainment spinning and twirling and flying. While the Entertainment has fun, people just keep walking, walking.

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H Gonzalo rushed on, concerned not to lose them in the crowds and, having found them, he signaled me to hurry. Then to me: ‘‘They’ve gone to the Dance Hall!’’ I said: ‘‘We better circle on the Merry-Go-Round.’’ He said: ‘‘No, no, to the Dance Hall!’’ Thus we go to the Dance Hall. There two bands were taking turns playing. In the immense space there were perchance a thousand small tables occupied by people, and in the center the floor shimmering like the surface of a large lake. Hence the music strikes, forthwith couples come out, twirl around; when the music stops, the couples stop twirling. The hall so spacious, so great is its immensity, that from one end to the other ’tis like in the mountains when from their heights, from the highlands and into a valley the eye gets lost, drowns, and people are like ants . . . while from a distance can be heard the sigh and drowning voice of music. Hence, workmen, servant girls, store clerks or apprentices, many soldiers and sailors, likewise office workers, seamstresses and Sales women sit at small tables or twirl in the center to the rhythm of the music; when the music stops, they stop. The hall glaringly white. The young one and his father (for it was his father) were sitting at a table and drinking beer; Gonzalo and I set ourselves at the next table, and Gonzalo is after me to make their acquaintance. ‘‘Walk up to them, raise a toast with them as with your Countrymen, I too will toast them, and we’ll all drink in company!’’

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The hall is huge, lots of lights and people are watching, I thus feel awkward again and I say: ‘‘This cannot be, ’tis too unceremonious . . . ’’ and I’m already searching in my head for a reason to leave, because ’tis Embarrassing enough to sit with such a man at the same table. He insists. I cringe. We drink wine, the music plays and the couples twirl. Thus Gonzalo again, that I should go to them, and he gazes with rapture at his chosen one and, wanting to win his graces, to catch his eye he half-closes his cute little Eye, moves about his soft hand, his soft little Hand, giggles, jumps up and down in his seat . . . and he’s on to the waiter, pokes him in the ribs, calls for more wine and likewise rolls bread pellets and shoots them about, hailing his Frolics with uproarious laughter! I’m more and more embarrassed because people are forthwith watching us; thus I tell him that I need to relieve myself and I go to the men’s room; my intention being to get out of his sight and vanish. I walk to the men’s room, I walk . . . But someone in the crowd catches me by the arm, but who? Pitskal! Behind Pitskal is Baron, and next to him Ciumka™a! Imagine my surprise. Where did they come from?! So I’m watching to see if they’re looking for a brawl, perchance that’s why they’ve run after me here; because of the embarrassment they’ve swallowed on my account at the Reception, perchance they want to let me have it . . . But not at all! ‘‘Oh, dear Mr. Witold, your Venerable self ! Thus we meet again! Let’s have a Drink! Have a quick one! Have a quick one! Let’s go, ’tis my treat!’’ ‘‘No, no, ’tis my treat!’’ ‘‘No, no, ’tis my treat!’’

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Pitskal screams forthwith: ‘‘What do ya mean, ya nerd?! Ever seen such an idiot?! ’tis my treat!’’ But Baron takes me by the arm, takes me aside, loudly whirrs, or buzzes like a bumblebee: ‘‘Don’t listen to them, Sir, their boorishness pains the ear, the two of us will have a drink, please, if you please, my dear Sir!’’ But Pitskal catches me by the sleeve and pulls me away, into my ear he says: ‘‘Why is this French Pug pesterin’ ya with his airs, stupid, cretin-like, come wit’ me, we’ll have a drink, no fusslike!’’ Thus I say: ‘‘May God repay you, God repay you, there can be no greater honor than to have a drink with you, Gentlemen my friends, but I have company.’’ No sooner said than they nudge each other, likewise squint their eyes, shake their heads: ‘‘You have company, company! Just so, you have company! Indeed, perchance you’re here with Gonzalo, devil take you! You got friendly with Gonzalo, you with Gonzalo forthwith go, isn’t that ducky! That man, forsooth, rolls in millions! Thus you’re not crazy like people are sayin’! Le’s go for a quick one, a quick one! Le’s have a drink! My treat!’’ ‘‘No, no, ’tis my treat!’’ They cozy up to me in a more and more friendly, unceremonious way, but since they don’t dare poke me with their elbows, they poke each other in the ribs, nudge each other, frolic with each other: ‘‘Le’s go, have a drink!’’ I realize that what they’re doing to one another is perchance aimed at me . . . and forthwith they begin hugging, kissing each other (for they don’t have the pluck to do it to me), and ‘‘Le’s Go, Go, My treat!’’

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‘‘No, no, my treat!’’ Pitskal shakes his money-bag, Baron likewise his, Ciumka™a unwraps money from a piece of paper, and on they go showing it off to each other, shoving it under each other’s noses. Then Pitskal exclaims: ‘‘What are ya goin’ to treat me for, ’tis my treat, I’ll even give ya about a hundred pesos, if I feels like it!’’ Baron exclaims: ‘‘I’ll even give you two hundred pesos!’’ While Ciumka™a: ‘‘I have three hundred here, I’ve three hundred here and fifteen in small change besides!’’ I see that even though they’re treating each other, inviting and showing the money to each other, they’d rather be treating me and showing me the money . . . ’tis just that they don’t dare . . . they’re actually suspecting me of romance with the arch-rich Puto . . . and for this reason they’d perhaps give me mountains of gold, actually they just don’t know what to give me, how to plead with me! In return for their grievous offense ’gainst me and the shame of clearly taking me for his lover, I’m in a mind to hit any one of them in the kisser; but instead I just yell at them not to bother me because I’m busy! . . . and I quickly walk away, enter the men’s room, and they’re behind me. There is one man relieving himself in a urinal. I’m to a urinal, they’re to a urinal. But when the man who was relieving himself leaves, in one body they’re onto me, and Baron shouts to Pitskal, ‘‘Here’s five hundred Pesos for you,’’ while Ciumka™a to Baron, ‘‘Here’s six hundred for ya,’’ Pitskal to Ciumka™a, ‘‘Here’s seven hundred, seven hundred for ya, take it when I’m givin’ it to ya!’’ They’re pulling out the money, shaking it under my, under their noses, and pressing it to each other! They must be crazy!

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Thus I understand that even though they’re dishing out this money to each other, they’d rather give it to me, to buy themselves into my graces . . . ’tis just that they feel awkward, don’t dare give it to me. Hence I say: ‘‘Don’t get worked up, Gentlemen, easy does it, easy.’’ But they’re just looking where to press this Money onto me, finally Baron clutches his head: ‘‘By God, there’s a hole in my pocket, yes, I better give you my Money or I’ll lose it! . . . ’’ and he begins to press the Money onto me, and when they see this, they likewise shove theirs onto me: ‘‘Take mine too,’’ ‘‘and mine too, because likewise I have a hole in my pocket.’’ I say: ‘‘God have mercy, gentlemen, why are you giving it to me? . . . ’’ but just at this moment someone enters for his need, so off they go to the urinals, unbuttoning their pants, whistling, as if ’tis nothing, that they’re in need . . . When the one who has entered leaves, they’re back onto me, but they’re bolder now, on they go pressing the Money, and ‘‘take it,’’ ‘‘take it,’’ they shout. I say: ‘‘In the name of the Father and the Son, gentlemen, why are you giving me this, why do I need your money?’’ At this moment someone walks in again for his need, so they’re off, back to the urinals, whistling . . . but as soon as we’re left alone, they skip to me again and Pitskal exclaims: ‘‘Take it, take it when we’re givin’ it to ya, take, take it because he’s got three hundred or four hundred million!’’ ‘‘Don’t take it from Pitskal, take it from me,’’ Baron exclaims, whirring and buzzing like a wasp, ‘‘take it from me, because, for God’s sake, he may have even four hundred or five hundred Million!’’ Meanwhile Ciumka™a is moaning, weeping, sighing: ‘‘Per-

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chance even six hundred Million, take this my small change as well, your favor I beg, my Venerable Sir!’’ When thus they’re insisting, all red, fired up and waving the Money about, shoving it to me, pressing it onto me, the one over the second and over the third, the one over the head of the second and the third, and thus Among Themselves they’re onto me, onto me, I don’t want to make difficulties any longer and I let them stuff the Money into my pockets. Whereupon they’re all off to the urinals: for somebody is just entering. I head for the door with the money and run out of the men’s room into the hall: while there, the music is playing, couples twirling. I stop short with the money and I see that at the table my Gonzalo keeps frolicking and frolicking and frolicking . . . He thus waves his soft little Hand; then winks his cute little eye; or else tosses bread pellets, or tinkles his glass, or taps with his cute little finger, and with his frolics he’s thus like a Tom Turkey among little Sparrows . . . and with an uproarious laughter he hails his own frolics. Hence those sitting close to him think he’s perchance a nut, but I know what’s in his wine and to whom he’s directing these frolics. Even though disgusted, even though I wanted to go home, to slip away, to get away from it all, the sight of it seemed to push a knife into me to pity him (now he’s raising his heel), because he’s my companion after all (now he’s waving his hankie), my supporter (he’s clapping, knocking his knees), with whom I had walked (on he goes tapping his fingers) I thus cannot let him carry on with such antics in front

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of people (he’s trumpeting on a paper trumpet). I thus direct myself back to the table. On seeing me, he switches from frolic-waving and begins to wave to me. When I am close up, he exclaims: ‘‘Hey-ho, have a seat, have a seat, we’ll have fun! Hey-ho, hey-ho, oopsie, doopsie!’’ Oh, how oopsie is Pancratius, Though I fancy my Ignatius!

Whereupon he lobs a pellet at my nose, into the paper he trumpets, and softly says: ‘‘You traitor, where have you been, what were you doing, are my affairs Boring you?!’’ He forthwith clinks his wine glass with mine, tosses about bits of tissue, and pours wine into my glass. ‘‘Let’s have a drink! Let’s have a drink!’’ Momma dancing me forbade, Yet I’m Prancing in the glade!

‘‘Oh, let’s have fun! Let us revel!’’ Pours me wine. I find it hard to refuse, because he invites me so jovially. We’re drinking. But next to us, Baron, Pitskal and Ciumka™a have settled themselves at the next table and are calling for wine! The devil of it! It seems that since they’ve given me money they’re feeling bolder, and when Gonzalo takes a drink, they likewise go for their tumblers, wine glasses, they’re clinking their tumblers, wine glasses, drinking, tossing them off, shouting, hey-ho, oopsiedaisie, you live only once! However, they’re not bold enough to

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drink to us, thus they only drink to each other. Gonzalo and I drink to each other. My glad eye I cast at you, Kill it, knock it, here comes Sue!

While he says softly to me: ‘‘Go to the Old One, invite them to keep us company. We’ll get acquainted.’’ I say: ‘‘This cannot be.’’ He’s pushing something into my hand under the table and says: ‘‘Take it, take it, hold it . . . ’’ this is Money. ‘‘Take it,’’ he says, ‘‘you’re in need, know I’m your Friend, your Admirer, you were a Friend to me, I’ll be a Friend to you!’’ I don’t want to take it, but he forces it on me, and shoves it onto me. Hence I would have thrown this money to the ground; but since I already had that other money, and now this new sum has been added to it, I don’t know what to do; it seems to add up to a total of about four thousand. Meanwhile Baron and his companions are drinking; but they begin to drink to me. With their money in my pocket, I can’t very well not drink to them; so they’re back to me; Gonzalo to me; I to Gonzalo; they to Gonzalo; Gonzalo to them! We’re drinking, drinking to each other. Oh, what fun! Kisses, kisses, hey-dee-ho, Lips of mine are not for Joe!

He trumpets into the paper, waves his soft little hand, his cute little foot! Hop, hop, hop! Thus we’re now all together, drinking to each other from one table to the other, but if truth

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be known, not to them is Gonzalo drinking but to the others, that is to the Old Man and to his son. Likewise he says to me: ‘‘Go, invite them to join our company!’’ I thus get up and, approaching the old man, in these words I address him: ‘‘Forgive my imposition, sir, but I’ve heard our native speech and thus wish to greet my Countryman.’’ Forthwith, most politely arising, he introduced himself as Thomas Kobrzycki, formerly Army Major, now Retired, and he likewise introduced his son Ignatius. He then bid me to have a seat. I sit by them, he treats me to a beer, but ’tis obvious my company isn’t much to his taste, and ’tis by reason of my Companions. And mainly because they’re Roaring, Drinking, Making a Racket! Realizing that he is a most respectable, decent man, in these words I address him: ‘‘I have company, but they are somewhat in their cups; and as you, Venerable Sir, know that no one here chooses his acquaintances; it would betimes be better if Acquaintances transformed themselves into NonAcquaintances.’’ They are making a racket. But he says: ‘‘I understand your forced situation and, if you wish, please enjoy calmer amusement with us.’’ We thus keep conversing. This is a most upright, decent man, with severe, regular features, salt-and-pepper hair, his eye bright, gray, and very bushy, his face dry though fuzzy, his voice likewise fuzzy, his hand dry and fuzzy, his nose aquiline but bushy and very fuzzy, likewise his ears are overgrown with tufts of gray, old hair. Up close, the son seems to me rather nimble, deft, while his hand, that leg of his, likewise his teeth,

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his mop of hair such that, oh, Gonzalo, the rascal, rascal, oh the rascal! While over there they keep hollering, shouting! Then the Old Man turns to me saying that he’s sending his Only Son to the army, and if he can’t reach our Country, he’ll enlist in England or France, at least to assail the enemy from this side. ‘‘Hence,’’ says he, ‘‘we stepped into this Park so that my Ignatio has some fun before he leaves, I wish to show him some Folksy Fun and Games.’’ He’s saying this, while they’re drinking over there. Thus what catches one’s attention in this man is the extraordinary discernment in his speech and general demeanor, furthermore he was so discerning, so careful in his every word and deed that, like an Astronomer, he was constantly studying, listening. And most polite. In view of this Politeness, and Discernment in everything, this Honorableness, in view of his obvious, extraordinary purity, righteousness in all things, endeavors, I was more and more ashamed of my Companions, of my big and little affairs. But, unwilling to reveal to him these my problems, I just said: ‘‘I wish the best for your intentions, Sir, let me likewise drink with your Son to the success of his upright, noble purpose.’’ Thus we clinked our glasses. But, when I clinked with the Son, over there Gonzalo drank to me—likewise Baron, Pitskal, and Ciumka™a drank to me. ‘‘Hop, hop, hop, let us drink, have fun!’’ I thus had to drink to them; and they to me. Then the Old Man: ‘‘I thus see they are drinking.’’ ‘‘Indeed, they’re drinking.’’ ‘‘They are likewise drinking to you.’’

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‘‘Since they know me, they’re drinking to me.’’ He mused, fretted . . . and he finally said, more softly: ‘‘Oh, perchance this is not the time for such fun . . . not the time . . . ’’ I’m embarrassed! Then, leaning over, into his ear I softly said to him: ‘‘On Christ’s wounds, you better leave this place, together with your son, I tell you this in friendship, because they are Drinking, but not to me!’’ The Old Man bristled: ‘‘And to whom are they drinking?’’ I say: ‘‘They’re drinking to that Foreigner there, my Companion, but he is not drinking to them, nor to me, but to your Son.’’ He scowled, looked dumbfounded: ‘‘They’re drinking to Iggy? How so?’’ ‘‘Yes, to Iggy, to Iggy, thus take off with your Iggy, because he’s after Iggy! Run away, run, I tell you!’’ And they’re Roaring, Imbibing, Trumpeting, Racket Making, over and over downing their mugs, tumblers, and wine glasses! And hop, hop, Johnny and Maggie! Uproar, rumble like at a country fair! The old man turned red as a beet: ‘‘I likewise figured that he’s peeping at my Son, but I didn’t know for what reason.’’ ‘‘Run away, run away with your Son, otherwise people will just laugh at you!’’ ‘‘I’m not going to flee (we keep talking softly into each other’s ear) with Iggy, because my Iggy is not a young lady! For God’s sake, don’t you mix up Iggy in this, don’t tell this to Iggy! I’ll deal with this man myself.’’ Meanwhile Baron and Pitskal drank to Gonzalo for all their

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worth, while Gonzalo waved to us with his hankie and drained his mug, and ‘‘oh, let’s be merry, oh, let’s have fun!’’ The old man lifted his mug as if wanting to drink to Gonzalo . . . but he suddenly banged the mug on the table and started up from the table! Gonzalo also rose! Forthwith other people likewise began to rise, realizing that a Fight might be brewing. Only the Son didn’t move, feeling awkward since he must have realized what’s squeaking in the grass, and the poor devil turned red as a lobster. Hence the Old Man is standing; and Gonzalo is standing. The latter, regardless of his effeminacy, is quite a splendidlooking man; but when it smacked of a Fight, he softened considerably; Puto in fright, while the Old Man upright; Puto in fright, while the Old Man upright; Puto in fright, while the Old Man upright. This lasted quite a while. Gonzalo was frolicking lightly softly with the fingers of his left hand as if wagging his tail, begging for everything to turn into a joke, a frolic. But the old man is standing, and Gonzalo, out of his anxiety, fear and trepidation, raises to his lips the mug that he holds in the other hand, takes a Drink. To his peril! He must have forgotten that it was exactly the Drinking that started the altercation! Hence one could hear the Old Man’s question: ‘‘Who are you drinking to?’’ But, who was he drinking to? To no one. He was drinking out of fear and not removing the mug from his lips, because if he did he’d have to reply! Thus he keeps drinking to drown it all. But the trouble is, oh, the devil of it, devil, that while he was earlier

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drinking to the Son surreptitiously, his Drinking is now directing itself again to the Son (the Son sits at the table, not budging), and thus She the Rascal is standing and to the Laddie is sip, sip Sipping and to him Drinking! He realizes this and, scared of Thomas’s terrible fury, he goes soft as a rag, but he is clearly drinking even more because of fear and thus exposing himself to Thomas’s fury . . . and more and more scared of the fury, he’s drinking, drinking, and drinking! Thomas exclaims: ‘‘Ah, you’re drinking to me!’’ Yet verily he was not drinking to him; but to the Son. Apparently Thomas exclaimed this on purpose, to divert Gonzalo’s drinking from the Son. Pitskal, Baron, and Ciumka™a went beside themselves laughing! Gonzalo squints at the old man, while still drinking and drinking and, even though he drank it all, he goes on drinking and drinking . . . But now ’tis obvious he’s drinking to the Laddie, and with his drinking he’s transforming himself into a Female and is finding in Her, in the female, his escape, his refuge from Thomas’s fury! Because he’s no longer a Man! Now a Female! Thomas, in his fury turns as red as a terrifying beet and exclaims: ‘‘I forbid you sir to drink to me, I prohibit any Stranger to drink to me!’’ But what sir is this? Not a sir but a Madame! And he’s not drinking to him at all but to the Son. And he’s drinking, drinking, although the mug is empty, he keeps drinking, drinking, thus stretching his drinking to infinity, and he’s defending himself with the Drinking, with the Drinking drowning himself,

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and drinking and drinking and ceases not his Drinking. Finally, no longer able to drink, when his Drinking comes to an end, he takes the mug from his lips and throws it at the Old Man! What a crash! The mug shatters into smithereens above Thomas’s eye! But Thomas doesn’t budge, just stands. Thereupon his son jumps to his feet; but Thomas yells: ‘‘Stay out of this, Iggy!’’ And he just stands. Blood appears, and one big Drop trickles down his cheek. Hence ’tis clear there will be a fight, they’ll go for each other’s pates . . . thus Pitskal, Baron, and Ciumka™a start from their table and take hold of anything they can, one a tumbler, another a bottle, the third a peg or perchance a stool; but Thomas doesn’t budge, just stands! ’Tis dark, from their pates steaming! Those farther away come closer, while Pitskal and Baron, not daring to pick a fight with anybody else, begin to tussle with Each Other, each other’s shags pulling, and forsooth their heads smashing, ears off-tearing . . . ’tis darkening before my eyes, Uproar, Dust-raising, for I too have drunk. But Thomas stands. And a second big Drop has appeared and trickles down the trail of the first. I’m watching: but naught, Thomas just stands there; and Gonzalo stands. As to Thomas, a third Drop has slowly trickled out, trailing the first two, and has dropped on Thomas’s waistcoat. For God’s mercy, what is this, why is Thomas not budging? He just stands. And a new, fourth Drop has trickled down. Because of these Thomas’s silent drops everything becomes

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quiet, and Thomas looks at us and we at Thomas; and a fifth Drop trickles down. Thus it drips, it Drips. We all stand. Gonzalo doesn’t budge at all. He then suddenly returns to his table, picks up his hat and slowly leaves . . . ’til his back disappears from our sight. Hence, after Gonzalo has left everybody turned around, picked up their hats, left for home and thus everybody dispersed, everything Dispersed. H That night, for a long time I couldn’t sleep a wink. Oh, why was I so docile at the Legation? Why did I go to the Reception? Why was I Walking at that reception? Forsooth those at the Legation will not forgive me the embarrassment, and I will surely be laughed at, disdained by all, and declared a clown. And the one and only man who didn’t refuse me recognition, or even a smidgen of admiration perhaps, turned out to be a puto, and then he drew me into his wooing as his procurer, oh, to my Dishonor and Disgrace! Thus tossing and turning in my bed, I sigh, moan, oh, Gombrowicz, Gombrowicz, oh, where is your greatness and your eminence, you may be Eminent, yet a Great Procurer, albeit a Scoundrel’s Friend, to the perdition of your good and upright Compatriot and his Son, young and good. And far yonder, beyond the water there is blood, thus here too is blood; and Thomas’s drops are trickling because of me. Oh, how Thomas’s blood weighs on me, how its union with that other blood that is spilling, frightens me! And as I tossed on my

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bed in pain, I sensed that the blood begotten by blood, here spilled, will lead me to even more onerous blood . . . Break off then with Gonzalo, cast him away from me . . . Yet we did Walk together, we Walked, oh, forsooth we Walk together, Walk, and how will I Walk without him when we’re walking together . . . Thus passed the night for me; but then, at dawn’s breaking a strange Thing, and thusly onerous, persistent, as if beating my head against a wall: Thomas arrived and, begging pardon for such an early hour, asked me to challenge Gonzalo to a duel in his name! I was forthwith struck dumb and I said, how so, what for, to what purpose, yesterday he had sunk Gonzalo enough, and how could he challenge him, exchange fire with him, since he forsooth is a Cow . . . He replied ponderously, stubbornly: ‘‘Cow or no Cow, yet he wears pants, there was an insult in public, it cannot be that I should as a coward appear, and in front of Foreigners withal!’’ In vain was my beseeching him that he not duel with a cow, not challenge a cow, thus providing fodder for people’s tongues and perchance fanning new laughter. Better be quiet, shush, keep it under wraps because ’tis also embarrassing for Iggy. He exclaimed: ‘‘Cow or no cow, that’s just talk! And he wasn’t drinking to Iggy but to me, an old man! And he didn’t throw the mug at Iggy but at me! The quarrel was between us and an insult in a drunken state as between Men!’’ I tell him—a Cow. But his mind was set and he went on

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piercingly shouting that Ignatius had nothing to do with it, that the other one is not a cow. Finally he said: ‘‘Hence I must challenge him, I will exchange shots with him, thus the matter must be in a manly way between Men settled; I’ll forsooth make a Man of him so they won’t say that Puto was chasing after my Son! Hence if he doesn’t accept my challenge, I’ll shoot him like a dog, and you tell him this so he knows. He must accept my challenge!’’ His obstinacy astounded me, and one could see that this man would not rest ’til he had forced Gonzalo to be a Man; it seemed he couldn’t bear the idea of his son being exposed to ridicule; and thus in spite of the obvious, he throws himself into the obvious and wants to transform it! But how to force Gonzalo to accept the challenge? Putting our heads together. Thomas bid me to first go to Gonzalo by myself and present to him privately, that, Fish or Cut Bait, he is either to accept the challenge or he will risk sure death by Thomas’s hand. Thereafter I was to go to him a second time, with a second witness, to challenge him pro forma. Couldn’t be helped. This was bad, oh, so bad. Better give it up because this deed seemed to be against nature itself: how on earth to challenge Puto? But regardless of obviousness, common sense, I was hoping against hope that he would perchance accept the challenge, stand up like a man, and then I would no longer be so ashamed of having walked with him at the reception, and likewise walked with him to the Japanese Park. I’ll go

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then, I’ll cast the challenge and see what he does. And thus (though it smelled No Good) I complied with Thomas’s request, and I made my way to Gonzalo. I drove up to the palace that, behind a huge gilt grating, emanated abandonment and emptiness. I had to wait a long time at the door, and when it finally opened, Gonzalo stood there, but in a butler’s white smock, with a floor mop and a rag. I then remembered that in fear of his Young Guys, his young guys, he was wont to pretend that he was his own butler, but no matter, I Enter, he steps back, turns pale, his arms drooping like a rag. Not until I told him that I came to talk with him did he calm down and said: ‘‘Right, right, but let’s go into my little room, ’tis better to talk there.’’ He led me through large gilt rooms to a small Little Room, God forbid so dirty, not even a bed there, just a messy straw mattress on bare boards. He sits on the mattress and says: ‘‘What’s up? What’s the news?’’ I spat forthwith. His ears turned white, he went limp, drooped like a rag. I said: ‘‘The Old Man whom you have insulted is challenging you to a duel. With swords or pistols.’’ He fell silent, stays silent, thus I say to him: ‘‘You are being challenged to a duel.’’ ‘‘I am being challenged to a duel?’’ ‘‘You,’’ I say, ‘‘are being challenged to a duel.’’ ‘‘I am being challenged to a duel?!’’ He squeaked at high pitch, flapped his cute little hands, cast

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about his cute little eye, and with his high and cute little Voice he said: ‘‘I am being challenged to a duel?!’’ Hence I said: ‘‘Quit your cute little Voice, quit your cute little Eye, cute little hand, and you better fulfill your obligation! And I’m telling you this in friendship, because you can be sure that if you don’t take up the challenge Thomas has sworn to kill you like a dog. Fish or cut bait.’’ I thought he would scream, but he just slackened like a rag, and his large feet lay softly on the floor; and the black little hair on his hand likewise softened and slackened as if made of cotton wool. Motionless he looks at me with a Mutton-dumb Eye, like a cow. I asked: ‘‘What do you think?’’ He says nothing, he’s softening, softening, like a soaked hen, and, when he’s thus softened, he voluptuously stretches like a Chinese Queen and lovingly whispers: ‘‘ ’Tis all because of Iggy, my Iggy!’’ Out of fear he’s thus softened into a Female; and being a Female, he’s no longer afraid! because what can a Female have to do with a duel! I thus still tried to talk some sense into him, and I said: ‘‘Oh, Mr. Gonzalo, consider that you’ve insulted the Old Man (he exclaimed: damn the Old Man) who won’t allow his Honor to be yanked about (he exclaimed: damn Honor!), and in the presence of his compatriots withal (he shouted: damn his Compatriots!), and I forbid you to decline the Father’s challenge (he shouted: damn the Father!), and likewise knock the Son out of your head (he exclaimed: the Son, now that’s something I understand!).’’

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He into weeping; and weeping, he moans: ‘‘I thought you were my friend, I’m surely your friend. How has that old man talked you into it, instead of siding with the old Father, you’d better unite with the Young, allow them some freedom, defend the Young One against the tyranny of the Mighty Father!’’ H Says he: ‘‘Come closer, I’ll tell you something.’’ I say: ‘‘I can hear well enough from a distance.’’ He says: ‘‘Come closer, then I’ll tell it to you.’’ I say: ‘‘Why closer when I can hear you.’’ He says: ‘‘I’ll perchance tell you something, but in your ear.’’ I say: ‘‘No need into my ear, we’re alone.’’ But says he: ‘‘I know you take me for a monster. However, I will make you side with me against this Father, and you’ll consider someone like me the Salt of the Earth. Tell me: don’t you believe in any Progress whatsoever? Should we just tread in the same place? How do you expect anything New to happen when you believe in the Old? Will the Mighty Father for ever have his young son under his paternal whip, will the young one for ever rattle off prayers in the manner of his Mighty Father? Cut the young one some slack, let him out to freedom, let him gambol!’’ I say: ‘‘You mad man! I too am for progress, but you call Deviancy progress.’’ To this he said: ‘‘And what about deviating a little, so what?’’ Well, when he said this, I replied: ‘‘For God’s sake, tell this to those who are like you, not to a decent and honorable man. I wouldn’t be a Pole if I were to incite Son against Father; you

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must realize that we Poles are exceptionally respectful of our Fathers; and don’t you tell a Pole to lead astray a son from his Father and into Deviancy withal.’’ He exclaimed: ‘‘And why should you be a Pole?!’’ Further says he: ‘‘Has the fate of the Poles been so delightful up till now? Hasn’t your Polishness become repugnant to you? Haven’t you had enough of Suffering? Not enough eternal Torture and Torment? Forsooth, today they’re tanning your hides again! You’re thus sticking by your hide? Don’t you want to become something Else, become something New? Do you want all your Boys to repeat in circles everything in the manner of their Fathers? Oy, let the Young Guys out of the paternal cage, let them run free across the wilderness, let them likewise glimpse the Unknown! Hitherto the old Father has ridden bareback on his own colt, has led him according to his own ideas . . . now let the colt take the bridle, let him carry his Father off to wherever his eyes will carry him! Let the Father’s eyeballs turn white when his own Son is carrying him off, carrying him off ! Hey-ho, hey-ho, let your Young Guys loose, let them Fly, let them Speed, let them Be Off !’’ I exclaimed forthwith: ‘‘Be quiet, stop persuading me, because ’tis out of the question that I should be against the Father and my Country, especially at a moment like this!’’ He muttered: ‘‘To hell with Father and Country! The son, son, that’s something that I understand! But what is the Land of the Fathers to you? Isn’t the Land of the Sons better? Substitute the Land of the Sons for the Land of the Fathers, then you’ll see!’’

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When he mentioned ‘‘the Land of the Sons,’’ in my first fit of anger, I wanted to hit him; but this expression of his sounded so silly to the ears that laughter seized me at this sick, perchance crazy man, and I laughed, laughed . . . while he muttered: ‘‘What’s this Old Man to you . . . But if you insist, I may perchance (I tell you this in friendship) take up his challenge to the duel. Why yes, I may take it up if I have a trusted Friend who will drop the bullets into his sleeve while loading the pistols. Let go of the old man! What’s the Old Man to you?! Let the Old Man fire just with powder, and thus both the wolf and the goat will have their fill. And after the duel we’ll make peace and even have a drink! When I courageously take up the challenge and display my manliness, he’ll surely not forbid me to drink with his—my Iggy . . . ’’ I laugh again; because this idea is likewise laughable; but I say: ‘‘There’s not just one witness who loads the weapons, there are other witnesses.’’ He says: ‘‘Why should they notice anything, it can be smoothly planned, after all, Bullets into the Sleeve is not unheard of at a duel.’’ I thus respond: ‘‘And what if they drop to the ground?’’ He says: ‘‘One must sew in a Pouch, and they’ll fall into the Pouch; no fear.’’ And thus we sit without a word for quite a while. ’Til finally I say (because laughter seizes me again): ‘‘Well, time for me to go.’’ He accompanies me all the way to the door that he slams forthwith so no Boy will spot him from the street. When I found myself alone walking down the street, ‘‘The Land of the Sons’’

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assailed me forthwith and like an irksome fly circled round my nose, like snuff tickled my nose, ’til hollow laughter seized me again. The Land of the Sons! The Land of the Sons! Oh, how Stupid this is, how Crazy, insanity pure and simple! And futile, base is his drivel about my slipping the Bullets into a Sleeve, and for the sake of this Puto to betray the Father and my Country . . . H What to do then? It was obvious that there is no human power that will force Gonzalo to face a loaded pistol; and, since Thomas swore to kill him like a dog if Puto declined to face him, the whole business could mean jail. Which I could not allow if I am Thomas’s friend. In that case there is no way (if I wish Thomas well) other than to deceive Gonzalo with the false hope of powder only; when he thusly arrives on the field, certain that he’s fooling Thomas, we, the witnesses, will quietly load the pistols with Bullets, and the Bullets will whiz! Oh no, I am Thomas’s friend withal! Hence, if I were to use a subterfuge it would be entirely for Thomas’s good! But the whole business would have to be arranged without his knowledge, because he, being a most honorable man, would on no account give his permission for such an intrigue; and it occurred to me to get Baron and Pitskal as his witnesses (with whom I could easily reach an understanding) and plot everything, and smoothly, with them. First, however, I must have a talk with them . . . yet cautiously, because who the hell knows if after yesterday’s spilling of

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Thomas’s blood they are still siding with Gonzalo, or perhaps their conscience has moved them and (even though, you know, they were pressing their Money onto me) they’ve perchance somehow changed. I thus went to the office, whereto my duty called me anyway, but, I must admit, it was as if I were going to the gallows, because who knows what or how, after my Walking at that reception, the office clerks my colleagues would receive me, when instead of Fame and Glory of the Great Bard Genius, there was a mighty, as if stripped to one’s Waist, embarrassment, and because of Puto withal. I thus figured, best blame everything on schnapps or wine, I press a hankie to my brow, I sigh, I’m hardly able to Walk, as if after a Drunk. The clerks give me looks from a distance, say nothing, just whisper among themselves in a bunch, and, from among their papers they stare at me like I’m a Freak, and they whisper, whisper. No one says a word to me, but they keep whispering among themselves, perchance because of shyness or anxiety, but among themselves keep on whispering and biting into each other’s Buns, nudging each other; and naught but whispers as if from behind a country fence. Perchance they’re likewise saying that I got soused yesterday; or perhaps they’re whispering something Worse. The old accountant dug into his papers and from behind them gave me looks like a magpie on a bough, or perhaps he remembered something from old times because he’s just whispering, whispering ‘‘On a pike—Balabaik.’’ I pretend to be drunk, or rather as if after a Drunk. I then ask for Baron. They tell me that Baron and Ciumka™a

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are testing their newly bought colts. I thus go, but as ever with that Land of the Sons (because by now I have the Land of the sons in my head like a splinter) to the Shed that’s behind the Manège, at the other end of the yard, and there I see Baron standing in the yard, and in front of him is the Groom on a big, grayish mare, either at a walk, or a trot, or a canter, or stepping in a Spanish or French amble; farther on Pitskal and Ciumka™a sit on a bench, sipping beer and watching a sorrel colt with a loosely shod hoof. And Pitskal is shouting: ‘‘Liposki, Liposki, where’s the Horse-collar?’’ Baron is waving a riding whip: ‘‘Halt! Halt! There’s a sparrow on the ladder.’’ I found it hard to come out of the shed, I would rather have gone back, not gone out at all, but the Dogs that were in the doghouse began to bark and I couldn’t help it: I came out. However, I pressed the hankie to my brow and walked with difficulty, I sighed, as if after a Drunk. They too might have felt awkward on my account after yesterday, thus they too pressed hankies, moaned and groaned, and Baron said, ‘‘Oh, I have a headache, headache, because ’twas forsooth too much fun yesterday, but to hell with it, to hell! Have some Beer with us, even though it tastes bad, ’tis the best thing after a drunk!’’ We drink beer and moan. But I’m bothered by their Money, and I likewise don’t know how to talk to them. I don’t want to talk with Ciumka™a there (because I’ve chosen just Baron and Pitskal as witnesses), and thus we just drink and moan. ’Tis hot and looks like rain. Having lost his key, Ciumka™a went to the shed with a peg, thus I tell them that Thomas has challenged

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Gonzalo, but the Crux, the Hitch is that Gonzalo is scared to take it up and will on no account take it up. Thus I say: ‘‘This is out of the question, because Thomas’s vow is that he’ll kill him like a dog if he doesn’t take it up, and this, sure thing, would mean jail. And likewise ’tis out of the question for us not to render help to our severely insulted Countryman in his great need, and we must Hold Council how to get Gonzalo to take up the challenge. They say: ‘‘Forsooth, forsooth, a Countryman, Countryman, and at such a moment as this, no way to abandon our Countryman, not to come to our Countryman’s aid!’’ They shake their heads, sip beer, look at me askance. I prefer not to mention the money, ’tis awkward. But I tell them there’s perchance No Way around it, and, if Gonzalo wants the firing to be without bullets, this must be promised him; but mum, so no living soul finds out. And thus the wolf has his fill and the goat is safe. Putting our heads together. Baron looks at Pitskal, Pitskal at Baron, then Baron says: ‘‘There seems No Way around it, but ’tis a vexatious matter.’’ Says Pitskal: ‘‘A shady business.’’ I say: ‘‘I know Gonzalo would be glad to have you Venerable Gentlemen, Goodly Sirs his Friends as witnesses since you were present at the quarrel, and thus we witnesses would with a mutual agreement arrange everything smoothly among ourselves and, as ’tis done, drop the bullets into the Sleeve; and, although ’tis a vexatious matter, our intention, you know, is forsooth pure, because ’tis the redemption of a good fellow, our Countryman, an older honorable man that’s at stake; and also that to the

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Polish name at this dire moment for our country no wrong should befall.’’ Pitskal eyes Baron, Baron eyes Pitskal, Baron flicks his fingers, Pitskal wiggles his leg. Says Baron: ‘‘On no account will I Puto’s witness be.’’ And Pitskal: ‘‘Me, Puto’s witness?! Not on yer life!’’ But I say: ‘‘Oh, ’tis hard, ’tis hard, but we must, we must, because our Countryman is in need, ’tis for our Countryman, for our Country . . . ’’ Hence Baron sighs, sighs Pitskal. They sit, they eye me, sip and sigh. Then they say: ‘‘Oh, ’tis hard, ’tis hard, but we must, we must, no Way around it, and especially for our Countryman, for our Country!’’ Hence ’tis Hard, very Hard. And mostly because their intention isn’t clear. For the devil only knows whom they want to oblige: Gonzalo or Thomas? Nor do they know my intention (mostly because I have not returned their Money). Nor do I know my intention, and even though I am on the Old Father’s side, the budding Land of the Sons knocks about in my head. But then it starts raining, and Ciumka™a crawls down the ladder. However, something must be set in motion. I drove to Gonzalo’s to submit to him Pitskal and Baron as his witnesses; he hugged me, called me his Friend, and when assured about the firing to be without bullets, mountains of gold he promised me. Then on to Thomas, whom I told only that Gonzalo had promised to present himself on the field. Thomas hugged me. I then went to Dr. Garcia, whom Thomas named as his second Witness: he was a successful lawyer, and having learned that I came from Thomas, he most cordially received me in his office, ahead of his other clients. He then says (’tis noisy in the office,

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hubbub, clients a-plenty, records being carried about, carried around, every once in a while somebody steps in and interrupts): ‘‘I know Mr. Thomas and I’m his Friend, dispatch those Records over there, get a receipt, and I wouldn’t be a man of Honor if in this matter of Honor, and ask Perez if he received those bills, thus I can’t refuse him, oh, may the Almighty God, here you must add this Dispatch, allow me to worthily, hide this briefcase, carry out my duty, mail this letter.’’ We then went to Gonzalo and the summons was cast, which Gonzalo accepted in his Salon with great courage and pride. H However, when late in the evening I returned home, so tired that I could barely stand on my feet, I found a note from Councilor Podsrotski: to present myself at ten in the morning at the Legation, where H.E. the Envoy wishes to see me. The summons fell upon me like a thunderbolt from the blue sky, because who knows what they want, what they’ll do to me, ’tis surely about that Walking at the Reception, or about Puto as well! Oh, why are they torturing me, why don’t they leave me in Peace, haven’t they brewed enough trouble, caused enough embarrassment for me and for themselves! And perchance a punishment, thunderbolts will fall on me for that clowning of mine! But, since go I must, so I go, and methinks don’t bite me or I’ll bite you, and ’tis no mere dunce you’re dealing with but with a Man who will stick like a bone in your craw. I thus go. On the street irksome shouts ‘‘Polonia, Polonia,’’ but I go, and, while

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the battle and merciless shouts ‘‘Land of our Fathers’’ can be heard from everywhere, with ‘‘Land of the Sons’’ in my head I go and go. At the Legation ’tis quiet, the halls are empty, but I go, then Councilor Podsrotski comes up to me in pinstriped trousers and a frock coat, double collar, and a bow tied in a crisscross. He greets me most politely but coldly and, twice his throat clearing, with his long, English finger points to a door. I enter, there is a table, behind the table sits the Minister, next to him another member of the Legation, who is introduced to me as Colonel Fichcik, the military attaché. On the table a Book of Minutes and an inkwell indicating that this will be no ordinary conversation but a Session of sorts. H.E. the Envoy was pale and weary for lack of sleep yet cleanly shaven. He greeted me most politely even though perhaps awkwardly . . . but no matter, poke me in the ribs methinks, but he says: ‘‘For God’s sake, you’ve brewed trouble a-plenty because you got soused yesterday, smashed in front of people like some Godforsaken creature, but no matter, come what may . . . ’’ He forthwith flashed his eyeball, so did both Fichcik and Podsrotski flash. I realized that they’re blaming all the foolishness that happened on too much drink, so I said: ‘‘A bit too much Schnapps, darn it, hiccups are still . . . ’’ The Envoy chortled, the Councilor following him, and him the Colonel. But ’twas laughter against their will, forced; they’d rather do something unto me. But the Minister says: ‘‘Tell me, what was it with that Mr. Kozbrzycki, the Major, ’tis rumored there was a

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quarrel; and likewise, when the Councilor went yesterday to Baron to look over the horses, Baron said there’s going to be a duel. Is this the truth?’’ Realizing that they’ve already heard the news, I said it was about a Tumbler that was thrown at Thomas. Says the Minister: ‘‘Baron likewise said that Major Kozbrzycki’s behavior under these circumstances was most laudable and honorable, to the admiration of all Foreigners there present, and ’tis likewise certain that he will bring no embarrassment at the duel, indeed, like a knight, like a worthy man of state he will present himself. Hence, ’tis an important matter, gentlemen, not to hide our Courage under a bushel, indeed, ’tis to trumpet it to the four corners of the world to the greater glory of our name, and likewise at this moment when we’re marching on Berlin, on Berlin, to Berlin!’’ (At this moment they all jumped to their feet, first the Envoy, second the Colonel, third the Councilor, and they’re shouting: ‘‘Berlin, Berlin, onto Berlin, onto Berlin, to Berlin!’’) I fell to my knees. But forthwith they ceased their shouting, the Councilor merely inscribed it into the Minutes. H.E. the Envoy continued: ‘‘With this in mind, I called you Gentlemen and Mr. Gombrowicz to this Session to decide how and what to do. Because our Nation is not only famous Most Famous because of our Geniuses, Thinkers, extraordinary Writers, but we likewise have Heroes, and when today yonder in our country our extraordinary Heroism abounds, let people here likewise see how a Pole presents himself ! Which is likewise the duty of the

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Legation to seize the moment, indeed, to show our Heroism to all and sundry, because our Heroism will vanquish the enemy, our Heroism, our Heroes’ Heroism is invincible, with overwhelming dread it shall fill the infernal powers who will then shudder and retreat before our Heroism!’’ (Thus they jumped to their feet, first the Envoy, second the Colonel, third the Councilor, and shouted: ‘‘A Hero, Hero, Heroism, Heroism!’’) I fell to my knees. But the Minister spoke: ‘‘This is why, after the Duel, God willing victorious, I shall honor Mr. Kozbrzycki, the Major, with a sumptuous dinner at the Legation; to which I shall likewise invite the Foreigners; and we shall indeed conquer the Powers of Hell!’’ The Councilor forthwith entered H.E. the Envoy’s speech in the minutes, and when he finished writing, full of fervor, he exclaimed: ‘‘An excellent Idea, Your Excellency, my Good Sir, an excellent idea!’’ The Colonel exclaimed: ‘‘’Tis my Good Sir’s matchless Idea!’’ Thus said the Minister: ‘‘Well yes, perchance a Passable Idea!’’ To which they exclaimed: ‘‘An excellent, noteworthy Idea! . . . ’’ and they forthwith entered it in the Minutes. Having entered it, the Councilor fell again into fervor and exclaimed: ‘‘Never, never in the world shall our Enemy defeat our power, our Courage, and not in the entire world is there Courage such as ours! Your Excellency! Why could H.E. the Envoy himself not be present at the duel? Hence I propose to invite the foreigners not only to the Dinner at the Legation but likewise to the Duel: let them see how a Pole presents himself with a pistol!

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Let them see a Pole with a pistol against the enemy, let them perforce see!’’ Thusly the Minister and the Colonel exclaimed: ‘‘Let them see! Let them see!’’ I fell to my knees. But, having shouted into the Minutes, H.E. the Envoy winced, flashed his eyeball and, lowering his voice, said aside to the Councilor: ‘‘Oh what a dunce, dunce, you are, Mr. Dunce, how on earth will you be inviting them to the duel, forsooth a Duel is not a Hunt. Oh, I’ve said nonsense; but how to extricate ourselves when ’tis already entered in the Minutes?’’ The Councilor turned red, looked at the Minister with a basilisk-like eye and, more softly, said on the side: ‘‘Perhaps erase?’’ Said the Envoy: ‘‘How are you going to erase it, forsooth these are the minutes!’’ Now they paled; and all three fell to gazing at the Minutes that lay on the table. I fell to my knees. Now they’re racking their brains: how to extricate themselves, what to do? Finally the Colonel said: ‘‘Oh, a piece of nonsense happened and unnecessarily escaped our lips: but I have a way to properly smooth it out. In truth, Your Excellency, you Sir cannot be present at the Duel, nor lead your Guests to it, because as Your Excellency has rightly said, ’tis forsooth a duel not a hunt . . . but we could actually organize a Hunt with greyhounds after a quarry, and invite the Foreigners to it . . . and thus, when the Duel is taking place, we shall be nearby, after hares as it were, passing by, and under the pretense of the Hunt, Your Excellency can present the Duel to the foreigners, and likewise deliver an appropriate oration about our Honor, Homage and Courage.’’ Said the Minister: ‘‘On God’s mercy, how are we

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supposed to organize a Hunt with greyhounds, since we have neither greyhounds nor horses! Replied the Councilor: ‘‘Greyhounds we may find at the Baron’s, while horses may likewise be procured from Baron’s Manège, he has a lot of horses there!’’ The Colonel says: ‘‘Indeed, Baron has not only horses, dogs, but we may also find whips there, riding boots, and spurs. We could ride up in a Cavalcade of twenty or thirty horses. Hence Your Excellency, sir, one way or another, take your choice, because the Minutes are waiting . . . ’’ Well, they’re jumping about as if scalded. But the Minister exclaims: ‘‘God have mercy on you, you’ve gone crazy, forsooth there are no hares, hares! Have you gone crazy, how can there be a hunt without Hares, in this huge city, not a single hare will you find, even searching by the light of a candle!’’ Mumbled the Councilor: ‘‘That’s the crux, that there are no hares!’’ I fell to my knees. Says the Colonel: ‘‘In truth, there are no hares to save your life. But, Your Excellency, Sir, the Minutes, the Minutes, we must somehow extricate ourselves, the Minutes, the Minutes . . .’’ Well now they’re jumping like crazy round the Minutes. I fell to my knees. But the Minister exclaimed: ‘‘O God, o God, how can we have a Hare Hunt, and with greyhounds, when forsooth there is a war, a war!’’ The Councilor called out: ‘‘The Minutes!’’ The Colonel: ‘‘The Minutes!’’ But H.E. the Envoy: ‘‘O God, o God, how can we hunt for Hares without Hares?!’’ Thus they’re shouting: ‘‘The Minutes!’’ Thus Putting their Heads together, Naught to be done, they’re racking their brains, they’re

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groaning (whilst the Minutes are searing them, searing), ’til finally, the Envoy, pale as a corpse, calls out: ‘‘Shit, shit, devil take it, let’s do it, do it, since there’s no other way . . . but how am I to organize a Cavalcade to hunt hares, when there are no hares! Something isn’t right, you can’t make bread with this flour!’’ I fell to my knees. It was decided that they’ll take the horses, the dogs from Baron and, with the greyhounds on leashes, they’ll pass in a Cavalcade, Ladies included, close to the field of the Duel, as if there’s naught to it, as if by chance they’re riding after the hare. Thereupon, having shown the Duel to their Excellences the Ladies and to the invited Foreigners, they will thereby show their Manliness, Honor, Prowess, likewise their immeasurable Valor, Earnest Blood, their Steadfast Reverence, their Faith sacred and Invincible, their Power sacred and Highest, and the sacred Miracle of the entire Nation. I fell to my knees. Having decided thus and entered it into the Minutes, the Envoy deemed the Session concluded and, long-faced (because they knew they had brewed something ill), they all exclaimed ‘‘glory, glory, hail, hail’’; first the Envoy, second the Colonel, third the Councilor. I fell to my knees, then forthwith I left in haste. H Not until I was on the street did I give vent to my agitated emotions. Oh, hell, hell, hell, to hell with it, so they’re hankering after a Hero, and what a Hero they’ve come up with! But I must go to a Session that had been arranged by Baron, Pitskal,

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and Doctor Garcia to set the conditions for the encounter. I expected no good of this Session, because ’twas was already obvious that we were sinking, sinking, ’til we were sunk. Indeed, I was not mistaken in my presentiments. The session was to take place in the little garden of a café by the river (because it was hot), but imagine my surprise, my amazement: Baron and Pitskal came riding up on huge bay stallions. Said Baron: ‘‘We were breaking in the stallions a bit and thus we rode up here.’’ But it wasn’t for the breaking in of the Stallions that they came here, but because, as the Cow’s witnesses, they were worried about being taken for Cows or Mares. Soon thereafter Dr. Garcia’s Assistant arrived with the news that his Principal was detained to sign a Transfer of Property and, begging our pardon most assiduously for his absence, he had been sent instead to take part in the deliberations. It could not be Helped. We thus began our Deliberations; while under a tree two Stallions stood. I’d have given anything for it all to be arranged quickly, quietly, as smoothly as possible, but for naught, because Baron and Pitskal have changed beyond recognition: they’ve swallowed a poker and say little, very polite indeed but sulky and sullen, they kept bowing. I thus say: ‘‘ ’Til first blood drawn and at fifty paces.’’ They say: ‘‘This cannot be, ’til third blood it must be and at thirty paces.’’ Thus, afraid of the Mare, they want, God help them, to make this empty Duel without bullets the harshest, the most difficult; while their Stallions stand there under the tree. They thus puff up, pump up, huff and puff, and (even in this Duel without bullets) they call for blood.

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Moreover, they mumble something among themselves, concocting something. Because they don’t dare start up anything with me, nor with the Assistant . . . but among themselves they’re more emboldened and, while they can’t bring the Stallions into play with us, they bring them into play among themselves, and thus rudely with each other, one mumbles against the other, they scoff at each other. Because they remember their old, primeval Feuds and Disputes, be it about the Mill or the Sluice, look at each other askance, they mumble, and Baron mumbles, Pitskal mumbles, they mumble, mumble, what if I hit you in the kisser, beat you up; and Baron pulls out of his pocket a big, old, broken Fingernail. So, since they’re not really supposed to bicker with each other because this is a Deliberation with me, while talking to me, they just keep badgering each other. Thus says Baron: ‘‘I’m not a Boor from Boors but a Gent from Gentry, and everything here is not to be made Boorish by a Boor with a pig-face, but to be Gentlemanly like Gentleman by four Horses drawn, because I’m thusly a Gentleman not a Boor, and my deceased mother milked no cows nor did she relieve herself behind a barn.’’ Says Pitskal: ‘‘Whether anyone is a Boor from Boors or a Gentleman from Gentry, if I feels like it, by yer pardon, I’ll drop me pants in front of everybody in the light of day and I’ll Take a Crap, yes, in front of everybody, and if anybody’ll do anythin’ to me I’ll nicely-like smash his kisser, smash it . . . ’’ Thus they go on prattling! But the Money they gave me is bothering me . . . and I don’t even know what to do with it . . .

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because how can I return it when the Deliberations have already begun? Their Intention is thus unclear, is it a scheme against Gonzalo or against Thomas; and ’tis likewise unclear whether like men of honor we’re discussing the terms of the duel or are we hatching a plot. And if a plot, ’tis unclear against whom, and are we defending Thomas, or is it for money, for that miserable Mammon, oh so Sweet and Nice, that we wish to smoothly arrange this for Gonzalo. ’Twas because of this uncertainty that Baron wanted not thirty but twenty-five paces; because the more the Duel smacks of fraud the harsher they want to make it, and they insist on all manner of Harshness. Likewise the Assistant, you know, some dunderhead, a Dutchman, a Swiss man perchance, a Belgian, or a Romanian, did not at all comprehend matters of Honor, and he put forth a motion for both sides to tender a Deposit, by way of Security that they would present themselves on the field, the said Deposit to be duly notarized. Thus everything was limping along like lumping along up a hill, the Duel becoming more and more harsh, even though without bullets. While yonder, beyond the water, bullets are whizzing. Indeed, if not for that business beyond the Forest, beyond the water, I’d have none of the uneasiness, but exactly because of that bloody Contest, not I alone but they all felt heavyhearted, baffled, and each one pondered what would fall on his head from yonder, wary of bringing misfortune on himself. Indeed, at such a dangerous time for us, instead of sitting mum and quiet, we’re here organizing a Duel, while yonder there are Bullets,

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here likewise is a Bullet (though without a bullet). O Jesus, Mary! Oh, help, help! And why, and what for, and how so, and for what reason, and what will be the end to this? O Christ, o merciful Christ, ’tis so hard, hard, hard! . . . But it can’t be helped, what is there to do when there’s naught else to do, and just ahead of us is this Duel as the only purpose for all of our activity. And that is why, even though ’tis dark, you know, and little to be seen, just as in a forest when one is lost, and from a distance one sees a big rock or a hillock in between the trees and one walks toward the hillock to have at least a purpose to one’s walk. And they too walk, each one from a different direction, along their own roads. And thusly Thomas walked, his undertaking Harsh and Bloody, because with his pistol shot he wanted to kill the Cow, to call up the Bull, with a pistol shot he called upon the Bull to gore the Cow that had dishonored his only Son . . . Oh, the Bull, bull, bull! And thusly Gonzalo walked, on the quiet, stealthily between the bushes slipping by, also sniffing, chasing after the Boy like a Weasel, running away from Thomas into the emptiness of the empty Duel. Likewise riding, oh, riding are Baron and Pitskal on their stallions, also mumbling, casting an evil eye on each other, unsure of their own intentions. Likewise H.E. the Minister and the Councilor are dragging along, approaching with their Cavalcade over a glade, over a plain, under the willows, behind the Pines, the Firs, their Ladies included! A dark forest! A vast and ancient Jungle! A wooded expanse! O Merciful God, o Christ, Benevolent and Just, o Mother Most

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Holy, and likewise I am going, going and Going thus, and my Walk is on my life’s road, in this heavy travail of mine, up the Mountain, in this thicket of mine. I am thus going and going, Going and, on reaching my Purpose I do not know what to Do, but Something I must Do. Oh, why am I Going? Yet I am Going, Going because the others are likewise Going and, like sheep, like calves, we are thus leading each other to that Duel, and useless are all plans, designs and decisions when man is forced by other people and among people lost as in a dark Forest. Hence you are Going but you are Lost, and you are deciding something, planning something, yet you are Lost, and seemingly according to you own will you are making arrangements, yet you are Lost, Lost and you are talking, doing something, yet in a Forest, in the Night, you are lost, lost . . . H But, when with such thoughts I’m Walking the streets, the newspapers’ importunate shouts ‘‘Polonia, Polonia’’ do not cease even for a moment, indeed, it becomes ever louder, more vehement . . . and likewise something is not good . . . yonder something does not seem quite right but, you know, ’tis dark and one can hardly make anything out, as in a fog, by the water, at dusk . . . And I realize that something is not good, seems to be cracking, breaking apart, hardly breathing. And I’m thus walking the streets, keep on walking, buying newspapers, ’til I happen upon the building of the Legation and I see that H.E. the Envoy’s windows are lit. The sinfulness of my designs, my

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affairs, lack of clarity, uncertainty of my emotions make me look with fear at the home of this sacred, oh Accursed Country of mine; however, when I discerned the shadow of the Envoy’s person ’gainst the white curtains, I could no longer restrain my agonizing curiosity: this I wanted to know, this I must know, how is it yonder, what is happening yonder, what is the Truth, and how can we be marching on Berlin when they’re fighting on the outskirts of Warsaw? Thus disregarding the night’s late hour, I crossed the threshold of my Country’s building and proceeded up the stairs to the second floor. Mine was the oath that I must tear the truth out of this man. I thus go, no one around, ’tis quiet. Quiet. My footsteps between the columns were disappearing, vanishing, while from the salon could be heard the Envoy’s muffled steps and his hunched shadow moved this way and that across the panes of the door. I’m going, going, going. I knocked on the door, and for a long time no one answered, the steps went silent. Thus I knocked again, then the Envoy exclaimed: ‘‘Who’s there?! What is it? Who’s there? . . . ’’ I entered, he stood by the window; upon seeing me, he exclaimed: ‘‘Why have you entered Unannounced?’’ He walked from the window to the fireplace and stuck his hands in his pockets. But forthwith he said: ‘‘Well, no matter, come here, Sir, because I wanted to talk to you anyway.’’ He sat on a little chair, then rose and came up to me, well, Mr. Gombrowicz, this and that, he circles, sideways, as if round about country fences, flashes his eyeball, flashes, finally he says:

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‘‘On God’s mercy, tell me, what’s this they’re saying about this Gonzalo, supposedly he’s this and that sort of a Madame with Men, isn’t that so?’’ And he walked to the other side of the room, there he sat on a little chair, then rose and picked at his fingernails. I’m thinking, why is he like this walking, sitting, rising, likewise picking, but I say: ‘‘They’re talking, talking, but there is no proof, and he has accepted the challenge.’’ ‘‘Watch out that there’s no embarrassment, because we’re organizing a Cavalcade, and invitations have gone out! We’re organizing a Cavalcade regardless of the war and of the fact that there are no hares! We’re going crazy! And this is no second-rate music-hall but a Legation!’’ He exclaimed with a thundering voice: ‘‘A Legation,’’ he’s shouting, ‘‘a Legation . . . ’’ Methinks, why is he shouting thus? He stopped by a sideboard, and I think: why has he thus Stopped? Then methinks: why am I Thinking about his shouting, sitting or rising, since when have his shouting, sitting, rising become strange to me? Even very Strange; moreover somehow Empty like an empty bottle or a Tub. I look, I watch and I notice that everything about him is Empty, thus, seized with fear, methinks why is all this so Empty, perchance I better fall to my knees? . . . Hence I fall to my knees, yet naught of it. He stopped walking. Took a few steps. Stopped again and stood still. I’m kneeling, but my kneeling is altogether Empty. He’s standing, but his standing is likewise empty. ‘‘Get up, sir,’’ he mumbled. But his talk is Empty. I keep

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kneeling, but my kneeling is Empty. He went to the sofa and sat on it as if it were a Tub or a Puffball. I finally understood that everything has gone to hell. That ’tis finished and the War is Lost. And he’s no Minister. I rise from kneeling, from my knees I rise . . . I stand up. I’m standing. He’s likewise standing. So I say: ‘‘Perchance there won’t be any Cavalcade then?’’ He heaved a sigh and flashed his eyeball at me: ‘‘There will not be any Cavalcade?’’ he asked, ‘‘and why shouldn’t there be?’’ I thus say: ‘‘So the Cavalcade will take place?’’ Says he: ‘‘Why shouldn’t it take place? Forsooth ’tis been decided that it must take place.’’ Thus I say: ‘‘Ah? So it will take place?’’ Says he: ‘‘I’m no weathervane atop a church.’’ And he exclaimed: ‘‘I’m no weathervane atop a church.’’ And says he: ‘‘Who do you take me for? I am an envoy, a Minister . . . ’’ And he suddenly exclaims: ‘‘I am an Envoy! I am a Minister!’’ And he states: ‘‘You shithead, I am no shithead, I am the government’s, the State’s representative!’’ And he went on shouting, without stopping, like one possessed. ‘‘I am the Envoy, I am the Government, this is the Legation, I am the Minister, I, the State, I, the Envoy, I, the Minister, I, the Government, Legation, State, and the Cavalcade will take place, will take place, because the Legation, because the Government, because the Legation and I, the Envoy, the Envoy, and the Government, and the State, and on to Berlin, on to Berlin, to Berlin, to Berlin!’’ He thus runs to the wall, to the window, hence to a closet, and he’s shouting, shout-

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ing to high heaven that the State, Government, Legation, that he is the Envoy, and on he goes shouting that he is the Envoy . . . But his shouting was empty, and I left the Legation building. H But all is Empty. And the street is likewise Empty. A light moist breeze blew over me, but I didn’t know where to go, what to do; and when I entered a café my Tea was Empty. I then thought this is the end of our old Country . . . but this thought was Empty, empty, and I walk down the street again, but, as I thus walk I don’t know where to go. So I stop. And all is empty and dry, like sawdust, like pepper or an empty barrel. I thus stand and wonder where to go, what to do, because I have no Friends no close acquaintances, I’m just standing on the corner, you know, I’m standing . . . and then a fancy takes hold of me at this nocturnal hour to go to the Son, to see the Son . . . This wish wasn’t quite sensible, at Night withal, but as my standing on the corner grew longer, since I didn’t know where to go (because the cafés have already closed) it became more and more intense. My father has died quite a while ago. Mother far away. I have no children, and since I have no Friends or anyone close, let me at least look in on somebody else’s child and, although ’tis somebody else’s, to see a Son. A fancy, as I say, utterly crazy, but I took off forthwith; and as I’m thus Walking without any goal, the Walking itself directs me toward the Son; and thus, suddenly for no reason, I’m going to the Son (my Walk becomes slow, timid). The Son, Son, to the Son! I know that regardless of

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the late hour I’ll be able to carry out my intent, because Thomas and his Son occupy two small rooms at the pension, and, as was usual in southern countries, all the doors were left open. Thus, without any difficulties I entered the pension and found the small room, and there I see: he lies naked on the bed, overcome by sleep, and his chest, his shoulders, his head and legs, oh, the rascal, rascal, oh, Gonzalo the rascal! The son lies and breathes. His breathing brought me some relief, but suddenly anger seized me that I came here in the night, devil knows what for, to what purpose . . . and I thus say to myself: ‘‘Oy, we must, we must guard the young well, and likewise chastise them! Why are you lying thus, you loafer? I’d have a mind to chase you to Work! Send you on an errand! Order you to do something! Oh, keep a tight hold, don’t ease up, to work, to Prayer chase you with a stick so you’ll grow up a Man . . . ’’ but he just lies, breathes deeply. I then say: ‘‘Whip him but good so he keeps his place, grows up virtuous, because, Lord have mercy, this loafer lies belly-up . . . ’’ But he’s lying. Lying, while I’m standing, and I myself don’t know what to do, why had I come here. Hence I wanted to leave; but I couldn’t leave, because he’s Lying, and I don’t know why I came here. Hence he’s Lying, Lying. At this point uneasiness seized me and I say, but not aloud, just softly: ‘‘Well, I came here because of uneasiness about the future of our Nation that’s been by the Enemy defeated, and we’re left with nothing but our Children. May the Sons be faithful to their Fathers and to the Land of the

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Fathers!’’ I’m saying this, but forthwith fear seizes me, what am I saying this for, and why am I saying this . . . Suddenly ’tis Empty here! All at once ’tis so Empty! All at once ’tis as Empty as if Nothing to it . . . as if there’s nothing . . . and only he is Lying here, lying, lying . . . ’Tis empty within me and empty ahead of me. I exclaim: ‘‘All spirit hail Lord the God!’’ However to no avail is God the Father’s name when ’tis the Son who is here before me, when ’tis only the Son and naught but the Son! Son, Son! Let the Father give up the ghost! The Son without the Father. The Son Run Wild, the Son Run Riot, this is it, this I understand! H Early next morning—the Duel. When we arrived at the designated little meadow that stretched near the river, nobody was there yet; Thomas was saying his prayers; but soon a carriage with the doctor arrived; and soon thereafter with sound and pomp came Gonzalo, drawn by four trotters and a coachman, and behind his carriage came Baron and Pitskal on stalwart bay stallions that, prodded with spurs and pulled up by the bridle, jumped and snorted. Thus we were all here. I and Baron began to measure the field when I saw a frog, so I said to Baron: ‘‘There are frogs here.’’ He replied: ‘‘They are because ’tis wet here.’’ Likewise Dr. Garcia came up to me and said to hurry up because he has a Session, including Transfer of Property.

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The sign was given and the adversaries stepped onto the field. Mr. Thomas did so, modestly, quietly, while Gonzalo in radiance, with the swish of all his garments: namely a Sword Belt in blue satin, likewise Satin waistcoat Saffron yellow, a black Smock over it and also a satin Half-Frock with medals and braid, also a two-colored cape, as well as a Black Mexican hat with a brim, wide, very wide. Baron and Pitskal mounted their Stallions again. Gonzalo waved his hat, the horses snorted. Pitskal rode up to me at a gallop, pulled up his horse and, while still on the horse, he passed me the pistols; and Puto waved his hat again. Thomas stood calmly on his spot and waited. I loaded the pistols . . . bullets into my sleeve, into the oversleeve. I then handed Thomas the pistol, though empty, Pitskal handed the other to Gonzalo, likewise empty. When we stepped aside Baron called out: ‘‘Fire! Fire! . . . ’’ But his call was Empty because the barrels were empty. Gonzalo, having flung his hat to the ground, raised the pistol and fired. The report resounded through the meadow, but ’twas all Empty. The sparrows (fatter than ours, yonder) sat on little bushes, but took flight in fright; likewise a cow. Thomas, realizing that Gonzalo’s bullet missed him (because there was none), raised his weapon and aimed for a long, long time: but he didn’t know that his aiming was Empty. He aimed, aimed, fired, but so what, ’twas empty, empty: and from his paff naught but a whack. The dearie sun has already risen a bit, began warming (because the fog had dispersed), and here from behind a bush a cow crept out; Gonzalo waved his hat;

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while from a distance, from beyond the bushes, the Cavalcade appeared; thus first two Coachmen, one of whom had two, the other four greyhounds on a leash, on their trail the Ladies and their Chevaliers are riding in a boisterous procession, chatting, singing along . . . and hence they’re riding by, riding by, first on the right is H.E. the Envoy in cavalryman’s hunting attire, on a big, piebald stallion, then the Councilor and next to him the Colonel. They’re riding, riding, as if nothing to it, following the hare, although, mark you, all is empty because there is no hare . . . and thus, you know, they’re slowly riding by . . . We stand gaping at them, and chiefly Thomas. They rode by. On with loading the pistols, I bullets into my sleeve, fire, fire, Gonzalo waved his hat, fires from an empty barrel, but naught; and Thomas raises his weapon, he aims, aims, aims . . . oh, and how he was aiming! Oh, how he was Aiming for a long, long while, assiduously, oh, so earnestly, so fearsomely was he aiming that, although the Barrel was Empty, Puto shrank, looked dead, it even seemed impossible to me that Death wouldn’t plummet from the Barrel. Thomas boomed. But from his rap nothing but a paff. Gonzalo waved his Huge, Black hat, Pitskal and Baron pulled up their horses so they sat on their rumps, while Dr. Garcia stepped up to me and asked to hurry up because he has a Session. Forthwith I nigh clutched my head! All at once it dawned on me what had happened, that we fell as into a trap, there would be no end to this and the Duel couldn’t be concluded: because forsooth blood must be drawn, but how could blood issue when

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the pistols were without bullets? Oh, what an oversight, confusion, blunder on our part that we missed this while arranging the conditions!!! They could be paff-paffing the entire day and night and the following day and night and through the entire day thereafter, because I kept loading Bullets into my Sleeve, and fire, fire, thusly without end, without a breather! O God, what to do, what’s to be done?! Meanwhile Gonzalo fired! Thomas fired! And the Cavalcade appeared in the distance, beyond the bushes, to wit Ladies and Chevaliers, likewise greyhounds, and they’re riding at a slow trot or at an amble, first H.E. the Envoy, then the Councilor and the Colonel, and they’re riding after the hare (although there is no hare), they rode away . . . Gonzalo waved his hat. Thomas raised the pistol to sight. Oh, how he was aiming! O God, God, God, with all his soul, all his might, all this honesty of his . . . and he knit his brow . . . his eyes half-closed on him . . . and he’s thus Aiming, Aiming, Death, Death, unto certain bloody Death, Death and Blood it must be! He rapped. Yet just paffed. And with this empty paff he was perchance killing himself. Puto waved his black hat. And the Cavalcade appeared, this time closer, as if naught to it, they’re talking among themselves, chatting, shouting, they’re after the hare, after the hare riding! Suddenly Pitskal’s stallion bit the stallion’s rump that Baron was sitting on. Bit its rump! Baron smacked Pitskal’s, and Pitskal smacked Baron’s; to wit Baron hit Pitskal’s horse on the head, on the head, then Pitskal hit it back on the head! The stallions squeaked.

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We ran toward them. But they had already carried off their riders, they’re running all over the meadow! Baron fell off ! I likewise noticed that the horses in the Cavalcade are snorting, squeaking, Ladies falling off. Suddenly the dogs’, the greyhounds’ ferocious barking is to be heard, and screaming, groans, oh, they must have caught someone and are pulling him about! We, abandoning the duel, speed behind the bushes to his succor, here the horses, all the Stallions, chomp at their bits, bite, squeak . . . and under the Dogs ’tis none other than Iggy tumbling with the Dogs, bitten, ripped by them! Human screams, dogs’ grunting, throttling, Iggy’s groans, horses’ gallop, ladies’ squeals, men’s voices, into a Dantean symphony dissolve. Thomas shouted ‘‘the Pistol, the pistol’’ and ripped the pistol out of my hand and fired at the dogs; but the barrel was empty. Whereupon Gonzalo hurled himself upon the Dogs with his bare hands, to wit with a terrible scream, to high heaven . . . and, falling in between them, he began to tumble with them, screaming, tousling, tearing them away from his Iggy, with his body, with his body shielding him! The coachmen were already after the dogs with ropes, with whips, with anything they had; others likewise jumped to it. Thus they finally chased the Dogs away. They likewise caught the horses; and whoever had fallen was now clambering off the ground and recovering. Thomas caught up with his Son, and realizing that but for superficial wounds his son had suffered no injury, he thanked God on his knees for His immeasurable benevolence; he then extended his hand to

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Gonzalo: ‘‘Oh, you’ll no longer be my enemy but a Brother, a Friend, since you saved my son at the peril of your Life!’’ Forthwith they clasped each other in their arms to everybody’s loud applause, while one and all praised to high heaven Gonzalo’s bravery: ‘‘He saved him from death! He rendered it to his enemy! He nigh perished himself . . . ’’ Iggy likewise extended his hand to Gonzalo while the latter took him into his arms and like a brother hugged him. Hence after fear there is joy. H.E. the Envoy says: ‘‘Well, praise be to God the way it ended, and no one is at fault here, perchance only the stallions and the coachmen . . . because when the stallions started biting, the dogs tore away from the coachmen and jumped on the youth whose concern for his father brought him here to hide in the bushes. Hence, gentlemen, my gracious Ladies, you saw the evident sign of God’s Grace that saved the son for his Father. Behold these groves! Behold the herbs, the shrubs, Nature entire that rests under the Heavens’ enormity; and behold how a Pole, in the presence of all creatures, forgives his Son’s rescuer! By God’s grace! By entire nature’s goodwill! Oh, because ’tis an assured, a most assured thing, that a Pole is beloved of God and Nature for his Virtues, but mainly for that Chivalry of his, for his Courage, Nobility, Piety and that Confidence of his! Look at these groves! Look at Nature entire! And look at us Poles, amen, amen, amen.’’ Thus they all exclaimed: ‘‘Viva Polonia Martir!’’ I fell to my knees. Then Gonzalo suddenly stepped into the center, made a circle with his Hat, which again startled the

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horses; he, however, not paying heed to the horses, spoke thusly: ‘‘It is a Great, immeasurable Honor for me to have been able to step onto the field with such a worthy man a Pole, because, Your Honor, may the Lord God protect me from the shame of not stepping onto the field with anyone, and I thus shirk no one, and whoever Seeketh me he will Find me; because I likewise realize that there is no greater treasure for Man than his Name’s unsullied Honor. When, however, by reason of having Rescued the Honorable Gentleman’s Son from the Dogs, this worthy Enemy wants me for a Friend, I do not eschew his Friendship, indeed, his Friend, his Brother I want to be for all time. And methinks he will likewise not refuse me the honor of accepting the hospitality of my home, and to Drink to that friendship he will, together with his Son, repair to my house; where we’ll have a drink!’’ Forthwith all began to shout and cheer, here embracing each other, over there kissing, and Gonzalo again took Thomas first, then his Son into his arms. Such was the end of the Duel. H Arduous is this Mountain of mine, on the emptiness of my road, on my Fields, Empty, Empty, as if nothing is upon them. Thus, when all is said and done, with Thomas in Gonzalo’s carriage to his palace I ride; but not to the one downtown, but to his Hacienda two or three miles away. Behind us Gonzalo and Iggy are riding in a carriage. We’re riding thus on this road, as if up a Mountain, ’midst houses, dwellings, many fences, grass,

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little fruit trees; and we’re riding, whilst dogs, hens, sometimes a cat, children are playing, whilst people are milling around; and thus the horses are pulling the carriage, we’re riding rather fast, yet all is Empty, Hollow. Thomas is riding in silence; I’m likewise silent. Suddenly Thomas catches me by the hand: ‘‘Tell me, perchance we shouldn’t go . . . why should we go there? ’Tis seemingly a reconciliation, it seems this Man has indeed behaved honorably, he saved my Son from certain death, but his invitation is somehow not to my taste . . . Oh, we better not go! . . . ’’ He thus says to me; but these are empty words! I reply: ‘‘Don’t go! If you don’t want to, don’t go. Better not go . . . because don’t you see that ’tis not for you but for himself that he rescued your Son? You Wretched man, why are you taking your Son to his home . . . you’d do better to take Iggy from his carriage and escape as of from the Plague!’’ I thus replied but ’twas was Empty, Empty, because, although I was saying this for the peace of my heavy conscience, I full well knew that my advice would have the opposite effect upon him and would eliminate the possibility of any escape. He thus seized the whip and whipped the horses so they jumped! ‘‘Giddy-up, giddy-up!’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘even if it were as you say, I would not run away from him with Iggy, because my Iggy is not the sort that needs to fear his wooing!’’ And he lashes the horses with the whip so they jump, but for the peace of my conscience I further say: ‘‘You better flee and not expose Iggy to his snares . . . ’’ Two hours later we arrived at the gate of a large garden that,

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amid the boundless prairies of the Pampas, shot up with a plume of palms, baobabs and orchids. And, when the gate opened, ahead of us a murky, sultry avenue led to a heavily gilded Palace, in Mauritanian or Renaissance, Gothic and likewise Romanesque architecture, among the trembling of hummingbirds, big golden flies, multicolored butterflies and divers parrots. Gonzalo called out: ‘‘We’re thus home! Welcome all! Welcome!’’ H On he went hugging us, embracing our knees, leading us to the house! I was astonished, and Thomas and his son were likewise astonished at the sight of the grand luxuries of the Salons, of Halls with their Plafonds, Parquet Floors, TerraCottas, likewise Wainscoting, Oriels, Columns, Paintings, Statues, farther on Cupids and Refectory Tables, Pilasters, Tapestry, Carpets, likewise Palms, also Vases, Filigree Urns of crystal and jasper, small caskets, baskets of Brazilian rosewood, chests, Venetian or Florentine boxes, likewise cast-metal filigrees. One thing on top of another, crammed, stuffed together, God help us, what a headache: namely a Cupid next to an Ugly Thing, while here a Madonna on an armchair, there an Urn on top of a belt, one thing under a table, another behind a Vase, elsewhere a Column God knows where from and what for, next to it a Shield, also a Platter. However, noticing Titians, Raphaels, Murillos, and likewise other extraordinary works of art, we beheld it all with veneration, and I said: ‘‘These are treasures,

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treasures!’’ ‘‘Yes, treasures,’’ he said, ‘‘and that’s why, sparing no expense, I bought it all and gathered it here in a heap so it would Cheapen a bit. Hence these Works of Art, Paintings, Statues, here locked up together, cheapening each other from their surfeit would have thus become so cheap that I can break this Urn (and with his foot he pushed off its base a Persian Urn, Astrakhan, majolica, celadon, openwork, so the Urn scattered into a thousand pieces). But come, Gentlemen, have a bite of something! Never mind! ’Tis all dogshit . . . ’’ And just then a small Bichon-type dog ran across the hall, though you could see ’tis crossed with a poodle, because it has a poodle’s tail and pelage of a fox terrier. Forthwith the Majordomo ran in, Gonzalo ordered him to set the table because, he said, these are my best Friends, my Brothers! Having said this he again fell into Thomas’s arms, then hugged me, and likewise Iggy. But said Thomas: ‘‘It seems the dogs are biting each other.’’ Indeed, two little dogs, one a Stumpy Pekinese but with a bushy tail, the other a small Sheepdog (it seemed to have a rat’s tail and the snout of a Bulldog) were running together across the room, biting each other. Gonzalo exclaimed: ‘‘Ah, yes, biting each other, biting! Oh, how they’re biting, and look, my Good Sir, how the Madonna is biting the Chino-Indian Dragon, while this green Persian Carpet is nibbling at my Murillo, and so are the moldings at the statues, the devil of it, perchance I’ll have to provide them with cages or they’ll bite each other to death!’’ Here he burst out laughing and, seizing a small whip that lay on the table, he began to strike the Furniture with it,

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shouting: ‘‘Here, here, don’t bite each other, off to your kennel, off to your kennel!’’ And, thus cheered, on he went hugging us, kissing us, mainly Mr. Thomas, and Iggy likewise. We realized that this biting pertained not only to the dogs but likewise to the divers pieces of furniture, at odds and conflicting with each other. But Thomas said: ‘‘And there is a Library.’’ Indeed, in the next room, large and square, there were heaps of books, scripts on the floor, everything thrown about as if from wheelbarrows; mountains up to the ceiling; while between the mountains there were precipices, clearings, ravines, screes, gorges, likewise dust, powder so it tickles the nose. Atop these mountains exceedingly skinny Readers were sitting and reading; perchance seven or eight of them. ‘‘The Library,’’ said Gonzalo, ‘‘library, oh, what a nuisance ’tis to me, God have mercy, because these are the most precious, most worthy works of the very geniuses, of the foremost spirits of Mankind, but what of it, sir, when they’re Biting each other, Biting, and they’re likewise Cheapening from their overabundance, because ’tis too much, too much, and every day new ones are arriving, and nobody can keep up reading them all because ’tis too much, too much, oh, too much! Hence I hired Readers, you see, and I’m paying them through the nose because I’m embarrassed that all this is lying about Unread, but ’tis too much, they can’t read it all, even though they’re reading all day. The worst of it is that these books are biting each other, biting, biting, and perchance like dogs they’ll bite each other to death!’’ So I asked, because just now a small dog, the likeness of a German shepherd, likewise of a

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dachshund, ran by: ‘‘What breed is this one?’’ He replied: ‘‘These are my little house dogs.’’ At this moment Thomas saw another dog that was lying in the hallway and he said: ‘‘This one is perchance a Setter, but he’s no good as a lop-eared because his ears are like a Hamster’s.’’ Gonzalo replied that its bitch was an Alsatian that perchance mated in the cellar with a Hamster, and even though she was later covered by a Setter, she whelped pups with the Hamster’s ears. ‘‘Paah, beat it!’’ he exclaimed. We’re feeling more and more morose . . . and although his hospitality, his politeness forced us to reciprocate with politeness, it was difficult to hide our increasing confusion due to this man’s and his home’s quirkiness. Thomas fretted, scowled, like a carp with his whiskers tweaked, Iggy the poor devil seemed to have swallowed a poker, said nothing, just stood, while I, though supposedly in cahoots with Gonzalo, didn’t know what to expect of this place, which, not so much by its particular jarring quirkiness as by the combination of the numerous, irritating details, gave us a headache. When Gonzalo, excusing himself, left for his rooms to change into more comfortable attire, we were left alone, we didn’t feel like talking; and, in the silence, in the stifling heat of the evening could be heard the buzzing of flies, of parrots’ screeching, of dogs’ growling, biting. Forthwith Gonzalo returned, but in a Skirt! We were dumbfounded at this sight, in terrible fury blood rushed to Thomas’s head, and he might have struck him . . . but what of it when the skirt was not a skirt! The devil of it! To be sure, he put on a skirt, white, lacy,

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but its cut seemed to resemble a Dressing Gown; while his blouse was green, yellow, pistachio-colored, seemingly a blouse or a shirt. On his head a big, straw Hat adorned with flowers, in his hand a Parasol, on his bare feet cute Sandals, or perchance sixteenth-century-style Slippers. He thus exclaimed: ‘‘Hop, hop, to the table, we’ll have fun, come what may! Hey servants, serve us!’’ But realizing our shock, he added: ‘‘Oh, I see you’re looking at me as if I’m a monstrosity, but I’m not a monstrosity; let me tell you that in my native country people generally walk about in skirts around the house because of the heat; and thus ’tis nothing bad or strange, and I ask for your permission to wear this garb for my comfort. In Rome do as the Romans do! And I have likewise powdered myself a bit, because my skin chaps from the heat. Hey servants, spread the food, serve us, ’tis a festival today, on with it, hospitality is the word, with all my heart I invite you, but let’s hug each other again, because better Friends, Brothers I’ve never had, and ’tis a festival, festival!’’ And he hugs us, kisses, and catching us by the arms, he proceeds with shouts and exclamations, while over there a round table under the weight of chalices, crystals, ornate Goblets, Filigrees is straining . . . and forthwith menservants come with trays, Platters, Kettles, but mark you, we look, and these are perchance Girl Servants! But we look again, and these are Menservants, because they have little Mustaches; yet perchance they’re Girl Servants, because they’re in Bonnets; yet perchance they’re Waiters since they’re in pants.

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Exclaimed Gonzalo: ‘‘Please do eat, drink, stint not, ’tis a festival, a festival in my house, go on, tuck into these victuals!’’ He poured me mulled beer; but beer not beer, although if beer, with wine it was laced; and cheese not cheese, cheese indeed but seemingly not cheese. Furthermore pâtés perchance like Layered Pastries, akin to Pretzel or Marzipan; yet not Marzipan but perchance Pistachio, although made with liver. It would be impolite to scrutinize these delicacies too much, thus we ate, with wine or beer or perchance not beer washing them down, and when one of us chews a morsel a long while, he somehow swallows it. While Gonzalo gave ostentatious evidence of his heartfelt hospitality, and sang a ditty: My glad eye I cast on you, Kill it, knock it, here comes Sue! H

Forthwith he called out: ‘‘To hell with it, why isn’t somebody standing here, forsooth I have in my keep a special Youth for Show, so he’ll Stand by the guests . . . Why is there no Show? Hey, hey, Horatio, Horatio!’’ At this call a Youth emerged from the butler’s pantry and stood in the center of the room. Gonzalo at him: ‘‘You so-and-so, you laggard, why aren’t you standing here, ’tis what I’m paying you for, you’re supposed to stand here for Show!’’ And to us he said: ‘‘There is a custom in this country of mine, mostly in better houses, for a servant to stand just for

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Show; but this laggard prefers to lie belly-up. Let’s drink, keep drinking!’’ Though a Lassie may squeak up On you pour a drink, and sup!

Thus we drink. Keep drinking. But ’tis hard, hard, oh so hard, as if lost in the fields, moreover ’tis Empty, like in an empty barn, just straw there, empty. Hence, in the boundless emptiness of my soul, ’tis like a hurdy-gurdy endlessly grinding. However, I look at this Nincompoop standing in the center of the room, gawking, and I see that the said Horatio once in a while Moves this or that . . . and thus, he blinks an eye or moves a hand, or he steps from one foot to the other, or swallows his spittle. Although those movements were natural enough, yet they looked Unnatural . . . although natural, yet likewise barely noticeable . . . but it seemed to me that he was not only for Show . . . and looking at his Movements more closely I noticed that this empty-head was perchance moving thusly for Ignatius’s sake. Now Gonzalo broke into a song: Mommy, mommy, oy he’s Hopping Even better—he is Clopping!

Hence I watch, seemingly don’t watch, yet likewise I do watch . . . and I see that this Nincompoop is in cahoots with Ignatius, and in this manner: whenever Iggy moves he moves (though you can hardly see it) and actually ’tis as if Iggy is

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pulling a string. When Iggy reaches for bread, the other one blinks his Eye, when Iggy has a drink of beer, the other moves his Leg; and his movements are so minuscule that they’re hardly noticeable; yet with his Movements he responds to Iggy’s Movements as if he’s conversing with his movements. Surely nobody else has noticed this. At the same moment a big dog, a setter, came up to fawn; black like a ram; but ’twas not a ram, because he was the size of a big cat with claws; but with a goat’s tail, and instead of meowing, he bleated like a goat. Gonzalo called to it: ‘‘Come, come, Negrito, here’s a Scrap!’’ Asked Thomas: ‘‘And what Breed is this one?’’ To which Gonzalo: ‘‘I had a St. Bernard bitch with a pointer and a Pomeranian admixture, but she must have perchance coupled with Cat the Purrer somewhere in the cellars; no matter how you watch them you won’t keep them from mischief. But let’s go to the salon for sweets, ’tis cooler there, more breezy, please, please, my dear Friends!’’ Says Thomas: ‘‘May you forgive us, but ’tis getting dark, we don’t know the way, moreover I have urgent business; ’tis time for us to leave. Order, my Good Man, horses to be harnessed.’’ Gonzalo exclaimed: ‘‘Forget it, forget it, I will hear none of it, ’twas never heard of that I would let my Guests go at nightfall! Hey, ho, hey, ho, I ordered the wheels to be taken off the carriages withal!’’ Then big, golden flies appeared at the onset of dusk and began to swarm under the palms, and when the Parrots’ screeches subsided, other nocturnal voices, clamoring, the squeaking of

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who knows what Animals arose, and night covered the soughing Baobabs with its mantilla. Sweets or no sweets, we eat them, we keep chatting or not chatting and, though sober yet drunk, among the Pieces of Furniture that who knows if they’re Furniture or perchance they’re Vases . . . but ’tis all Empty and just as in a desert. And, though something must be done, decided, yet all thought, all decision is like a stubble field, like Straw, like a Weed blown through by the wind on dry expanses. And ever greater is our Nothingness, our emptiness. While the aforesaid Nincompoop stands as ever in the center and dances with his movements in rhythm with Ignatio, though not dances (because he supposedly Stands). Finally the host brings us relief by giving a signal for repose and ordering his servants to lead us to the guest chambers. H I was assigned the Bathing Room, next to me Thomas had the Boudoir full of divers gewgaws, mainly little Fans, tortoiseshell or porcelain, likewise Foamy Figurines, on shelves, on Sideboards, on stools, on small Chinese tables, behind Screens. Ignatius and the others were assigned a bedroom in another wing of the palace, and hence Thomas’s anguish: because Gonzalo’s design to have him separated was already becoming apparent. When I found myself alone in my room, with just a candle lit, I was seized with great fear and I thus say to myself: ‘‘Oh, what are you doing, what are you surrendering to, watch out that some Evil not befall you . . . ’’ but my words are empty,

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empty. For the second time I thus say to myself: ‘‘Oh, why are you here, why are you conspiring with Puto against the venerable Father, Evil may befall you for this . . . ’’ but dry like pepper, like weeds, everything is empty. I then say: ‘‘Oh, why did you let the Bullets fall into the Sleeve, why did you betray your Compatriot Fellow Countryman?’’ . . . but all is as quiet as a tomb, wafting of emptiness, everything empty, you know, empty . . . A terrible Terror seized me, yet totally empty. I then experienced the strangest sensation, perchance not fear, ’twas the Emptiness of my fear that terrified me; not Fear alone, but actually Fear because of lack of Fear. On this my desert I say then: ‘‘On you go to Thomas, confess your guilt, confess the whole Truth, let Truth prevail, because something bad may happen to you, go, hurry!’’ . . . but I realize that instead of being moved, terrified by these words, they are like an Empty Bottle or a Bin. Thus realizing that I was not at all terrified, I became so Terrified that I ran into Thomas’s room like a madman, shouting thusly: ‘‘I want you Thomas, my friend, to know that I’ve betrayed you, and that the Duel was without Bullets, because we have thus arranged it with Gonzalo! On God’s mercy, flee with your Son, flee while there’s still time, because here, in this accursed house, they will seduce your Son; and ’tis not for you with this wizardry to tangle! Flee, flee, I’m telling you!’’ Thomas, at my call and confession jumped out of bed and, in just his Shirt, among the gewgaws, raised his arms and exclaimed: ‘‘Is it the truth that the Duel was without bullets?’’

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He comes closer, skips to me, catches me by the arms: ‘‘Speak up, speak up? Without bullets? With powder alone?!’’ When the Old Man grabbed me by the arms I fell to my knees before him in contrition, with Remorse and in Pain . . . But empty was my Remorse. He did naught but breathe heavily, and his labored breathing, wheezing, seemed to fill the whole room. He asked: ‘‘So you were all in collusion?’’ ‘‘I with Gonzalo.’’ ‘‘And the other witnesses?’’ ‘‘Baron, Pitskal, also in collusion.’’ He breathes heavily, as up a Mountain. Then says: ‘‘What have I done that you have done this unto me? What have I done that you fail to respect my gray hair? What have I done unto you that you have done this unto me?’’ I thus burst into heavy, heartfelt tears, his old legs hugging; but my tears futile, as if dripping from a roof. ‘‘Thus I was firing with powder alone? Thus I was firing with powder alone? Thus I was firing with powder alone?’’ Thrice he repeated it. Sensing his wrath, I clutched his Legs tighter and, not daring to raise my head, I felt above me the wrath of the aged Old Man’s gray head, the wrath of his trembling hands, of his fingers bent like claws, of his dry bones, of his eyes, ancient and Faded. I thus hugged his legs again, but merciless, hard were his Legs! Said he: ‘‘Well then, may God’s Will be done!’’

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I exclaimed: ‘‘On Christ’s wounds, what do you intend to do?’’ . . . Oh, God sees that at this moment I acted as I should have, and due Dread, Fear, and Trembling I did show . . . but frightful was my Fright for its very Lack of Fear, oh, why is it that at the Father’s wrathful feet and on my knees I cannot feel Remorse, nor Pain, nor Fear, but just Straw, hay, Weed, an empty Weed?! He says: ‘‘My disgrace I must wash away . . . with blood I will wash it away . . . but not with the scoundrel’s petticoat blood . . . Here a Weightier blood is called for!’’ I to his legs. I to those Legs of his! Yet hard are those Legs. Here is his rasping voice, here his gray Hair; here his wrinkles, his raised hand, trembling, his eyes with eyelids half-covered, his curse well nigh above me! Hence I trembled and deadened, but in vain did I tremble and deaden, in vain, in vain, Empty was the Barrel, and Empty the Pistol! ‘‘It seems they wanted to make fools of me and my Son; but my Son is no fool! Likewise no clown am I!’’ And ’midst the gewgaws he goes on shouting: ‘‘No clown!’’ I then realized that for him too all is Empty . . . That’s how it is in a pine grove when all is Dry and Empty, and a distant wind blows through the Weeds and dry plants, jostles them, soughs, peeks into mosses, amuses itself with small leaves and stalks . . . while high above pines, firs . . . Futile is the shouting! In vain the wrath! Pepper, thyme, whatever came to naught, came to naught! But the Old Man moved closer to me . . . moved closer, he took my hand and his lips he brought closer to my ear: ‘‘With

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God’s help I shall wash it off with blood, and the blood will be weighty, it will be terrible, because it will be my Son’s!’’ I say: ‘‘What is it you want to do? What do you want to do?’’ To which he replies: ‘‘My Son I shall slay with my very own paternal hand, I shall Kill him, with this Hand I shall murder him, a Knife, or not a Knife I shall drive through him . . . ’’ I exclaimed: ‘‘You must be mad! For God’s sake! What are you saying?’’ ‘‘I shall kill him, kill him, for it cannot be that I was firing from an Empty Pistol . . . and thus I shall kill him, Kill!’’ H In the emptiness of my fear all is empty, empty, I hurriedly left the room. From the windows of Gonzalo’s salons the wan moonlight was falling. There was thus no doubt that Thomas would carry out his intention, not only because he would be avenging having been ridiculed, but with this terrible death he would likewise save his Son from being a laughingstock. When in a murderous battle the Earth, the Heavens, engulfed by a fireglow, squat on their rumps, snorting, and when Mothers’ moans, their Shouts and Howls Bang and Break All Asunder, and when their Husbands’ Fists arise with a rasp and clang, and with the breaking apart of Caskets and Tombs, in the world’s, in Nature’s final upheaval, Defeat, Annihilation, oh, the End is nigh, when Judgment on all living things is being passed, he, the old one, likewise rises to Battle! He wants to fight his Country’s enemy! And when his advanced years to Impotence condemn

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him, he gives up his only Son to the army to die or to be maimed. Hence he throws on the scale not only his Dearest Son but also his own emotions, an Old Man’s Sacrifice, heavy and bloody! But worthless is his Sacrifice. Not frightening his gray hair. Futile are the Old Man’s emotions! Because he, having paff-paffed at Puto from an empty barrel, has become an empty, perchance a childish Old Daddy, so just give him Pap, let him eat it, let him delouse children, or with a pop-gun paff-paff crows, jackdaws on a summer’s day! Hence the impotence of his Empty Paff-paffing. Thus he, sensing his Impotence, wants to kill it within himself by killing his Son . . . and, by killing his Son with this terrible filicidal murder of his, he kills the empty Old Daddy within him to thus become a Hard and bloody Old Man, and with this Old Man of his he wants to Frighten and Scare! In vain my pleading! In vain my prayers! Because the Old Man within him only grows as a result of my fearful prayers . . . Oh, to Hell, Hell, Hell, Hell, to Hell with it! While I’m thus fighting with my thoughts, among the nocturnal murmurs, soughs, squeaks, yelps of this house, Gonzalo skips out from somewhere! Oh, how the Old Man keeps cursing! ‘‘I’ve heard everything because I was hiding behind the door! Why did you tell him, you traitor, about the empty pistols?’’ ‘‘If you heard it, you thus know that your fun and games will end in murder, because what he has said he will carry out and he will kill his Son.’’ He reeked of vodka . . . he reeled, almost fell . . . Drunk as a

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skunk! ‘‘He wants to murder my Iggy,’’ he shrieked, ‘‘never on your life, because my Iggy will actually murder him for me!’’ He was blathering like a drunk. There was something in his words I did not like, so I said: ‘‘You’re drunk. You better go and sleep it off. Why should Iggy murder his father? Oy, oy, you better sleep it off, don’t bother me!’’ ‘‘Iggy will murder the Old Man! I’ll see to it, because I have a way . . . I have a way with Iggy!’’ He was talking rubbish. His drunken rubbish wasn’t worth listening to! But he had something on the tip of his tongue, thus I pulled his tongue: ‘‘What is this way you have with Iggy? Iggy can’t stand you.’’ He took offense: ‘‘Oh, oh, oh! On the contrary, he rather likes me! And I’ll see to it that he’ll kill his Daddy! Kill his Daddy—I have a Way! And when he becomes the old fart’s daddy-killer, he’ll surely need my Help and Succor, because this is a crime, it reeks of crime; and he’ll forthwith soften toward me, oh, hey, tra-la-la!’’ I caught him by the throat! ‘‘Tell me what you are planning? What new Madness, Devilry are you dreaming up? What collusion are you in with your flunkey, this Horatio, what’s he up to with Ignatio, what’s he doing, Moving like that with Ignatio, what have the two of you thought up? Tell me or I’ll strangle you!’’ He went limp in my hands, turned up his eyes and mumbled: ‘‘Oh, don’t choke me, don’t choke me, choke me, choke me, choke me!’’ As if scalded I leapt away from his neck:

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‘‘Oh!’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘Beware, you reptile, I’ll settle it with you yet!’’ He then exclaimed: ‘‘Land of the Sons, Land of the Sons!’’ I was struck dumb. Then he again: ‘‘Land of the Sons, Land of the Sons, Land of the Sons!’’ He yelled at the top of his voice, ’til this appellation filled, it seemed, the whole house and went resounding over Forests, over Fields; and again ‘‘Land of the Sons’’ he went on yelling at the top of his voice . . . While he was thus yelling, I began to Walk, I into my Walk, I broke into that Walk of mine! He went on yelling: ‘‘Land of the Sons, Land of the Sons, Land of the Sons’’ and ‘‘Land of the Sons’’ and ‘‘Land of the Sons’’ and ‘‘Land of the Sons!’’ My Walk gained power from these yells of his, and forthwith became so Vehement, so Powerful that it could break the whole house asunder, along with that Yelling of his! I suddenly realize that there is nobody around. He ran away, the scoundrel, he perchance got scared of his own yelling, and left me to myself with my Walking. I stopped Walking. The huge hall, filled with divers objects, one on top of the other, one with the other, here a Triptych under a Vase, there a Carpet over a Candelabrum, an Armchair on a small Chair, Madonna and the Ugly Thing . . . also a Brothel, Brothel, Brothel, one and all coupling without shame with whoever turns up, a brothel. Likewise squeaking, yelping, scuffling of divers animals chasing each other from one corner to the other, behind curtains, behind sofas and, instead of a Dog chasing a Bitch the Dog perchance coupling with a Female Cat or with a She-wolf, with a Goose, a hen, perchance with a Female Rat, All a-flame, All

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a-fire, and a Bitch with a Hamster, a Cat with an Otter, a Rat perchance with a Cow, ’tis a wedding, a Brothel, Brothel and a Wedding, naught to it, who cares, on-and-away! Jesus Mary! Merciful Christ! Dolorous Mother! And here before me Filicide on the one hand and Patricide on the other! Hence ’twas certain that in his relentlessness, the Old Man was ready to carry out his vow, and would stab Ignatio with a knife or not a knife . . . ’twas also certain and obvious that not for naught were Gonzalo’s words, and that he has a Way with Ignatio to lead him to patricide . . . and thus a homicide will perchance not be averted, the only issue being whether the homicide will take the form of Patricide or Filicide . . . I wanted to fall to my knees before Thomas, my father . . . but then again Gonzalo’s shout ‘‘Land of the Sons, Land of the Sons’’ in my ears resounded, bursting my ears, I thus jumped from my knees and on to my Walking, I launched into my Walking, I’m Walking, Walking, perchance breaking the whole house asunder, killing the old man! What’s the old man to me! Slaughter the old man, slay him! Seize the Old Man, strangle him, may the young one strangle the Old One! Will the Father be the one for ever slaughtering the Son? Never the Son the Father? I’m thus Walking and Walking. But when I’m thus Walking, my walking begins to take me somewhere, to lead me somewhere (though I know not where) . . . there is Ignatio somewhere, lying, asleep . . . hence my Walking walks and walks and walks, and there is Ignatio . . . so I’m Walking, and there is Ignatio somewhere in a room that Gonzalo has assigned to

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him . . . and methinks why should I keep Walking, to Ignatio I’ll go, to Ignatio . . . and, when this thought came upon me, I directed my Walking to the hallway that lead to Ignatio’s abode; there, however, ’tis dark, the hallway, damn it, is long. I suddenly stepped on something, soft, warm and, remembering the dogs that had appeared here from everywhere, I wonder: dog or not dog. Frightened, I light a match, and ’tis not a dog but a big Youth, blackish, lying on the ground and watching me without a single word, staring with his saucers. Doesn’t stir. I step over him and continue walking, but then the match goes out, and I step on something with my foot, methinks ‘‘dog or not dog,’’ I light a match and look: a big Youth is lying on the floor, with big bare feet and, on waking from his sleep, he’s watching me. I thus continue walking, but the match went out, and again I step on two Youths, one of whom is white, Carrot-head, the other more slender, skinny, and they’re both watching me but say nothing, they just turn over. I walk on. The passageway is long. I realize that the Farmhands employed by the hacienda have their sleeping quarters here . . . which surprised me because it would be more proper for them to have a cubbyhole assigned to them in the farm outbuildings . . . but each host rules according to his own style, and a Neighbor’s Assistance is worth but a Pittance. However, the surfeit of these Fellows made me sick, so I spit, but methinks: why did you spit? And, having stopped walking, I lit another match. A blackish Young Fellow, fairly big, on whom I had

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unwittingly spat, lies there, and the spittle is trickling down his ear. He says nothing, just watches me. The match went out. I get mad and methinks: why are you Gawking at me when I’m Spitting on you . . . and I spat on him a second time. For naught, he’s quiet, doesn’t budge . . . I thus light another match and I see that he’s lying and my spittle is trickling down. But the match went out, and methinks, what the hell, you piece of carrion, here I’m spitting on you and there’s naught from you, you scoundrel, you rogue, I’ll just Spit once more on your kisser, on your mug, so you’ll know! . . . And I Spit, but, when I lit the match I see that he’s lying, naught of it, he’s watching me. And the match went out, so then I say aloud: ‘‘You rat, you piece of carrion, you scoundrel, you won’t get the better of me, perchance you think I’ll stop spitting, not on your life, I’ll just keep Spitting and will go on spitting as much as I want to!’’ So I had my fill of Spitting, but not a stir out of him and, when I lit the match I see he’s watching me. Thus is my thought: ‘‘Perchance he thinks this is for fun, for my Delight?’’ . . . And, having gotten a cramp, I could do naught for a long time so I’m standing, standing, he’s lying, lying, and naught, naught, time passes, flies by . . . ’til finally I jump over him, I flee like from the Plague and I speed on, I run, knock myself against a wall, run into a room or a cubbyhole and stand stock still . . . because I sense that something lies in front of me again. Pox-upon-it, the hell, another one, there’s just no end of it, I’ll just smash your kisser into a pulp . . . and I light a match.

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There on a bed by the wall lies Iggy, naked the way his mother bore him, deep in sleep and naught, he’s sleeping, he’s breathing. I froze when I saw him. Hence, to all appearances he’s sleeping like a decent lad. But while he sleeps, within him sleeps a Piece of Roguery and, o God, a Rogue he is, naught else, a Rogue, Rogue, capable of every possible Roguery, ease up on him and he’ll become a Rogue just like those other Rogues! H The morning of the next day turned out to be even hotter than the previous afternoon, the air was sultry, humid; from which a lot of sweating, my shirt wet. To top it off, the humidity is intolerable to the lungs, to the mind, goes through the bones, through the muscles, shooting pains force one into constant pulling and stretching. Thus we sluggishly putter about, rise from our beds with difficulty, greet our Host, and, breathing heavily, consume our breakfast. Gonzalo, in his morning dressing gown, Openwork, Saffian, in his sixteenth-century-style slippers, his musk perfume strongly irritating my nose, and with his white, pampered hand passes along small, white fingerlike sugar sticks for coffee. Divers doggies, dogs a-plenty . . . each wagging its tail, if it has one. Whatever we’re given we eat and praise! While the Nincompoop stands again and watches, and again ever so slightly Moves toward Ignatio, actually as if playing with his Movements on a panpipe, but so imperceptibly, so subtly, so you wouldn’t know whether he does it for Ignatio, or if

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he perchance unintentionally, unwittingly squints his eye, or steps from foot to foot. However, so skillfully and melodiously this Clown Horatio unites on the side with every Ignatio’s movement, that ’tis as if naught, he’s just playing the panpipe. Even Gonzalo himself noticed it because he says: ‘‘ ’Tis more pleasant to eat by woodland music.’’ Thomas, who through this night has grown perhaps twenty years older, from under his drooping eyelids and with a Grayhaired, sunken, almost primeval gaze watches these frolics . . . but says naught . . . but then ‘‘Actually,’’ says he, ‘‘I don’t want to evince ingratitude for our Host’s Hospitality by not staying here a few days with my Son; and my business, even though urgent, can wait.’’ Ignatio looks surprised, rolls his eyeballs (forthwith the Nincompoop, in unison with Ignatio’s eyes, steps from foot to foot), but Gonzalo is greatly pleased with Thomas’s decision and exclaims: ‘‘Oh, how fortunate is this hour! You are truly my friend! Let’s go then into the garden and wiggle our bones. Come, come Iggy, we’ll see who’s better at the Ballgame, and I request and entreat you, my Venerable, older Good Fellows to be the judges of our dexterity!’’ He took a Ball out of a cupboard, and hurled it at Ignatio. Ignatio blushed, the Nincompoop swallowed his spittle; we’re forthwith on our way to the garden, the doggies behind us. The buzzing of big, golden flies among the Palms, bushes, among parrots in the thicket of bushy, feathery flowers and Bamboos enveloped us as if in sultry and humid arms, because the heat could be felt even more outdoors than inside the house.

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Divers strange animals scampered skittishly away to the right and to the left, big watchdogs crawled out, their Snouts sniffing us: but their Snouts were as if Lop-eared. The Nincompoop followed Ignatio, but so dexterous was he, the rascal, and melodious, as if he were accompanying his tread on panpipes. We came onto a small meadow with a Ball-court behind a fence, next to the Orangery. Having explained the rules of the game, unlike ours (because the ball, hit by the hand against a wall, having hit the ground twice, then hit from the air twice with a bat, may only be hit back after two bounces), Gonzalo forthwith hit the ball with his hand against the wall, then hit it against the wall after two bounces with the bat; and very nimbly. Ignatio jumped to it, received it from the bat on the bounce, while Gonzalo received it forthwith and, low from the ground, shot at it with the bat . . . thus it whirred; then Ignatio jumped, received it, shot it, thus it whirred and, as he shot it slightly at an angle, it went to the side, to the side! Gonzalo chased it and called to Horatio: ‘‘Why are you, laggard, just standing, you’d better get to Work, what a nuisance this thickhead is, get a rod and bang those stakes in the flower beds that have come loose!’’ He again tossed the ball, Ignatio jumped and received it from a bounce into a bounce, so Gonzalo hit it at an angle . . . it went on a curve, a curveball! . . . Thus Ignatio jumped for it, received it from the Bat with his Bat, the other cut it down on the fly so it went smack, Ignatio then barely, barely caught it and sent it straight as an Arrow; forthwith Gonzalo took it on the bounce!

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’Twas a Ball! A Hit! They Banged it fiercely, bang, bang, bang, bang, so it resounded! Meanwhile the Nincompoop from the side boom, boom, boom, boom, bangs the stakes in the flower beds with the rod. Ignatio was losing. Gonzalo was winning. In vain did Ignatio jump, give it chase! . . . Gonzalo, better trained, either on the Curve or with a Jump gives it an upward Wallop, and the ball flies by Ignatio’s nose. Bang, bang, bang, bang with the bat they thunder, with the bat they bang! Likewise Horatio from the side bangs the stakes. Ignatio gets mad and almost with his last effort, red and sweating, bangs the ball from a bounce; then Horatio on the side goes bang into a stake! The ball whirrs, Gonzalo barely manages to hit it back! Thus Ignatio goes bang again, and when he goes bang, forthwith Horatio in unison goes Boom with the rod into a stake . . . and thus with the Boom-bang the ball whirs and flies! Thus Ignatio Bang again, Horatio Boom into the stake, and with the Boom-bang the ball speeds on so that Gonzalo can hardly reach it! Thus Ignatio bang into the ball again, Horatio boom into the stake, as if they’re playing together against Gonzalo; when Ignatio senses that he’s gained a supporter he hits even harder . . . And thus, playing their boombang, they are winning! I glance at Thomas who watches with his bushy eyes, while the bang, bang, boom, boom, boom, goes on, and when Ignatio bangs, Horatio booms, and so the Boombang goes on! Did Thomas realize that this is no Ballgame but an ambush, that with this Boombang they are his Son abduct-

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ing, that with the Boombang they are his Son seducing? The old man said nothing. The dogs were biting each other. Hence when they ended the game, Ignatio, hot and sweating, was panting and panting; on went Gonzalo to congratulate him, hug him, extol his extraordinary prowess! And thus on it went from morning ’til evening naught but the Son’s seduction, with the Nincompoop’s help the Son’s abduction . . . while the Father somberly watches with his primeval eye! From morning ’til evening the same Disgrace, likewise Gonzalo’s devilish, hellish plan, among the Parrots, among the buzzing Flies, is like a big, green snake in the grass, in the weeds. Because it forthwith became clear why he needed this Horatio. Hence we went to check in the stables and found very malicious mules there, supposedly with Horses’ gait they step, but bite like Donkeys. And says Gonzalo, in this sultriness, in this heat: ‘‘Nobody is likely to ride these mules bareback, because they’ll throw you off ’’; forthwith Ignatio says: ‘‘I’ll try’’; then Gonzalo: ‘‘Horatio, why aren’t you doing something, for the nonce take that mare over a bar, because she’s forgotten her jumps.’’ And when the mule threw Ignatio off, Horatio likewise fell off the mare, thus they’re both clambering up, picking up their bones, bursting with laughter, and thus their Laughs, their Falls are combining. Gonzalo is laughing! Or else with shotguns aiming at birds, he says: ‘‘You, Horatio, take the popgun and pop the crows on the slope behind the barn, because they’re pecking too much at the hens’ eggs . . . ’’ and thus, while Ignatio goes for the birds in the grove, Horatio goes for the crows on the

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slope . . . and again there is the combining of their shots . . . Or, when Ignatio takes a bath in the pond, Horatio falls into the water and Ignatio grabs his leg and pulls him to the shore. Thusly went this constant combining, thus the Nincompoop’s unending, unceasing, irritating playing the tune, accompanying in everything, importuning! Ignatio perforce caught the drift of what was what, sensed Gonzalo’s evil intent in all this yet could not stop his own jumps and bellows from blending in unison with Horatio’s aforesaid jumps and bellows as if they were now comrades or brothers. Thomas saw all this, but ’twas as if he didn’t see . . . Yet ’tis Empty. Even though self-evident is the horror of impending affairs, even though they’re seducing the Son, all is Empty, Empty, so that one prays for fear, for terror, and like a mushroom yearns for drizzle; because more dreadful than fear is the Inability to Fear. But we are like Dry Weeds, like an Empty Bottle, likewise everything for us is like an Empty Tub. On the third day such Fear Seized me precisely for Lack of Fear, that I went to the orchard and there, among the shrubs, reflecting on my despair, on my defeats, on my sin, I wished to awaken the lifegiving wellspring of my Pain, my Terror. I thus said: ‘‘I have lost my Country.’’ But naught, all is empty. I said: ‘‘I had united with Puto for the Father’s infamy.’’ But so what, all is empty. I said: ‘‘Here death, here Disgrace is threatening!’’ But little of it. Plums on a plum tree were growing so I ate one, but even greater Fear seized me: that instead of feeling fear I’m eating plums. Yet naught, all is empty, like Moss, like Thyme . . . and I eat plums

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off the path, small yet tasty, and the dearie sun is warming me, warming, when suddenly I see Thomas in the distance behind the trees . . . walking the paths, meditating, his arms raising high, as if calling forth Thunder, lightning . . . but he picked a plum, ate it . . . I keep walking, and there is Ignatio lying behind a bush, his gaze lost in the distance, but his thoughts perchance important, Weighty, because his brow furrowed, he’s weighing something, perchance deciding something . . . yet naught of it, he ate one plum, then another. Golden flies were buzzing. I’m walking the paths, little lanes, plums heartily eating, and at vegetables, at other fruit I’m gawking. But somebody from behind the fence is Hissing. I walk up to the fence, and there on a small meadow is a Horse Cart and in it Pitskal, Baron, and Ciumka™a, while Baron holds a whip and he reins in the piebald horses: on they go waving, pssting to me. I climbed over the fence. They say: ‘‘What’s new, what news?’’ I say: ‘‘Praise be to God, all is well.’’ Says Baron: ‘‘We were buying these geldings at the nearby Hacienda, come sit with us, you’ll see how sharp is their trot. But I notice they have spurs on their boots, thus I say: ‘‘In a horse cart with Spurs, you’re surely planning horse-riding somewhere.’’ Ciumka™a replied: ‘‘We tried the saddle horses at the Hacienda.’’ I thus climbed into the Horse Cart: whereupon Pitskal stuck a Spur into my calf and I almost fainted from terrible, awful Pain; while they whipped the horses and took off at a gallop! The horses, trained to the whip, went off like Crazy! Now the

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dogs jumped out, barking, jumping at us, yelping! Here I am, unable to move because of the piercing Pain, because the said spur has a barb and, once impaled, like Claws into live meat is stuck. The only strength I had left was to call out to Pitskal: ‘‘Don’t move, don’t move, it hurts!’’ . . . for his answer he Screamed, Roared like a Crazy One, like a Madman, like One Possessed, and he violently twisted his leg. From such Painful Pain I saw stars and fainted. H When I my senses regained, I saw myself in a cellar faintly lit by the light of a small window. At first I could in no manner understand how I found myself here, but the sight of Baron, Pitskal, and Ciumka™a, who sat on another sofa, but mainly the sight of those terrible, Bent Spurs that they had to their boots affixed, soon revealed the strangeness of my adventure. I thought however, that they got drunk and because of some Quarrel between them, perchance an ancient one, had done this to me. Thus I said: ‘‘By the living God, gentlemen, you must be drunk, tell me where I am and why you are persecuting me, because I swear on all that’s holy that I’m innocent.’’ For all the answer I merely heard their Gasping for Breath, Heavy, exhausted, and they looked at me with apparently unseeing eyes, and Baron said: ‘‘Be quiet, for God’s sake, be quiet!’’ Thus we sit, keep silent. Suddenly Ciumka™a moved his leg and stuck his spur into Baron’s thigh! Baron screamed in terrible pain but didn’t move for fear that moving would make the barb go even

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deeper . . . and caught as if in a snare, he sat still, sat still . . . after a while Pitskal shrieked and stuck his spur into Ciumka™a who, in the spur’s snare, paled, turned into stone. And again they Sat still. Hours passed in this silent sitting, while I dared not breathe, for fear that one of those Madmen would stick a spur into me. Beyond counting were the numerous wildest thoughts that tortured me, and, on those unshaven countenances, sunken, stretched like Christ on the cross and likewise burning like living Hell, I read the most terrible verdicts. When the door suddenly opened none other than the old Accountant, the same Accountant who had taught me how to write records into the Books, that very Accountant in his own person appeared! The kindhearted Accountant! But what a change in the Accountant! Slowly, pale as a corpse, he’s approaching us, his lips twisted, jaw clenched, eye fixed in a stare, Trembling like an aspen tree . . . no less, however, was Baron’s, Pitskal’s, and Ciumka™a’s trembling, no less their seemingly mortal rigidity! He had a spur attached to his boot and, having come closer, he stood right next to me, and when nobody said a word, when they were almost holding their breath, I, like a corpse, not saying a word, not breathing, I sat . . . Hence, probably for three or four hours we thus Sat, next to each other, motionless, speechless, while something grew, grew, grew Between Us and, when perchance it grew as far as the Heavens, when it became larger, more powerful than the whole world, the Accountant stuck his Spur into me jab, jab! . . . Into my calf he stuck it! Which made me fall to

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the ground in the most awful and piercing Pain . . . while he screamed, clutched his head. Lying on the ground and thus feeling the said barb that had caught me in a Snare, I no longer moved so as not to intensify Pain with Pain. And again silence ensued, and lasted perchance two or three hours. Finally, the Accountant sighed deeply and very softly said: ‘‘Fasten a Spur to his boot.’’ They thus fastened a Spur to my right shoe, while he said: ‘‘You now belong to the Society of the Chevaliers of the Spur, and you are to carry out my Orders, and likewise to ensure that the others carry out my orders. You are not to attempt any escape or treason, because they will stick you with the Spur, and if you notice the slightest wish for Treason or Escape on the part of any one of your companions, you are to jab him with the Spur. And if you were to neglect to do this, they will jab you with theirs. And if the one who is supposed to stick you with the Spur neglects to do it, another one of you is to stick him with the Spur. Thus watch yourself and watch over the others, and take note of the lightest movement if you don’t want to experience a Painful Barb, oh, a most Terrible, oh a most Hellish Barb and so Devilish!’’ And, wiping sweat from his pale brow, he said more softly: ‘‘Relax your muscle and I’ll remove the spur.’’ But ’twas hard to relax: because my Fear had to relax first. And when after prolonged effort of pleading with my Fear I succeeded in relaxing it a bit, on the Barb’s slightest movement my muscles tensed up again, seeing stars, shooting pains in my skull, Bursting it, oh, Heaven and Earth must be cracking! ’Til

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he yanked out the spur with a terrible Scream, howling, kicking, and such Pain inflicted that I again fell into a long faint. When I awoke the Accountant was gone, and only Pitskal, Ciumka™a, and Baron were sitting and gawking at each other. My head couldn’t entertain the thought that I by my Friends would be imprisoned, the door not even being locked: well, just get up and leave. However, for fear of suffering the Spur again, I sat without a word, not moving. They likewise sat. ’Til finally Baron moved a little and forthwith Ciumka™a moved his Spur; then Baron said: ‘‘I ask permission to go to the saucepan, prepare some food because ’tis my turn today.’’ Permission was thusly granted and he approached the saucepan, but Pitskal was right next to him with the Spur; while Ciumka™a watched Pitskal, not taking his eyes off me either. Thus things mightily tensed up again, but when the food was cooked, everything relaxed a bit, and Ciumka™a groaned: ‘‘O God, God, God . . . ’’ I thus realized that there was no hope. H I will not bore the gracious Reader with a detailed description of my torments, in the snare of the said Spur experienced. It was indeed a Snare, a Snare, into which we fell like rats, like squealing pigs, all at the Accountant’s bidding. And, once in a while when the Spur relaxed, from snatches of Baron’s or Ciumka™a’s confessions, or from Pitskal’s dull groans I found out the truth.

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It thus began after the Duel when I and Thomas repaired to Gonzalo’s hacienda, and Baron, through Ciumka™a, had challenged Pitskal to a duel because Pitskal hit him on the head. The challenge was, I’m telling you, through Ciumka™a because when Baron and Pitskal were on their stallions returning together from the duel, Ciumka™a crept out of a ditch (he was waiting for them in the ditch), and being exceedingly mad (he thought that they had purposely pushed him aside from being Gonzalo’s witness in order to harm his Business and not let him into their Profits), he thus crept out of the ditch and said: ‘‘Oh, stallions, stallions, you’d be better off passing for Mares because you’re perchance Mares yourselves, you were witnesses for a Mare, so you too are Mares . . . ’’ As he thus crawled up to them the Stallions began to prance and dance again ’til Baron wanted to kick him with his boot between the eyes; but instead of him he hit Pitskal in the thigh because Ciumka™a sat on the ground. Thus Ciumka™a sits on the ground while Pitskal hits Baron on the ear: ‘‘You so and so, why are you kicking me?!’’ Says Baron: ‘‘And what did you hit me in the head for?’’ Says Ciumka™a from the ground: ‘‘Oh, how the Mares are biting each other, it spells rain! . . . ’’ While the stallions keep prancing, dancing. Forthwith goes Baron for Pitskal’s ear! To wit blood is boiling, and one calls the other to a duel (while Ciumka™a reviles them as Mares), and they’re all the more fired up to a new duel, because the disgrace of the paff-paffing with Puto they wish to erase. As they’re thus reviling each other, they arrive at the Office, and Baron requests the Accountant to be the one who, in his name,

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challenges Pitskal pro forma to a duel with swords or pistols. But says the Accountant: ‘‘Why should I be challenging for you, forsooth you’re the ones afraid of bullets, because ’tis now clear and evident what people are saying, that the other Duel was without bullets, thus this Duel you’ll likewise want to be without bullets . . . oh, Stallions you are, stallions, but you are firing with Powder from an empty Pistol . . . ’’ Thusly Ciumka™a: ‘‘They’re Mares, mares . . . ’’ Forthwith Baron and Pitskal go at them, to beat them up they wish, ’til finally they all go to Manège for a drink of vodka. There Baron and Pitskal are making a racket, screaming that with Claws, even with Flails, or with Pitchforks unto death, to the last drop of blood . . . and they’re fuming, jumping at each other’s and at the Accountant’s throat, whether ’tis the Mill, or the Sluice, jeering, and all the old grudges, memories, all the wrongs suffered from time immemorial rise before their eyes as if alive. Hence says the Accountant: ‘‘Old Spurs I do have with well-bent barbs, and since you’re wanting to fight with flails, you’re better off doing it with these Spurs . . . but Spurs are likewise not for mares, but only for Stallions! . . . ’’ Thus Ciumka™a: ‘‘They’re Mares, mares! . . . ’’ They shout back that they are Stallions! And they’re asking to have the spurs attached, so they will forthwith jab each other to death! Hence did Baron stick his spur into Pitskal, Pitskal into Baron, and they thus fell into a Snare, unable to move. The Accountant turned pale as a ghost, his eyes bulged out of the sockets and, attaching a spur and catching up with them, he so jabbed them, so trampled them, bled them unmercifully, that

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they howled like Dogs, Foamed at their mouth, and a howl rose to the heavens from this place so Cruel. Thus had the Torture begun, Golgotha, this Alliance, this Snare Satanic Devilish. The reason that had inclined the Accountant to such a terrible Snare I learned from his own pale lips, when he returned to the cellar for the night. ‘‘All this,’’ he said, ‘‘is to overcome our accursed fate and give violence to and change nature’s hostility! ‘‘Because, God have mercy,’’ he went on, ‘‘here in this war they are again thrashing our asses. And again all is Lost! Accursed, accursed fate! Has Nature spurned us so that nothing is to our Good, nor Successful, nor Fortunate, and everything turns Evil and Malicious? Our shots are forsooth Without Bullets! Our Barrel is forsooth empty! And Nature does forsooth not want us and, disdainful, wishes us Death and Annihilation for our frailty! ‘‘Accursed fate! Therefore I, the Accountant, when I saw Mr. Thomas firing an Empty Pistol, this I determined: Terrible I will become and Nature I will attack, violate and conquer it, Terrify it so that our Fate will alter . . . Oh, to violate Nature, violate Fate, violate ourselves and violate God the Highest! Since no one will fear our Kindness, Terrible we must be! ‘‘Therefore,’’ he said, ‘‘I have wound the barbs onto those Spurs so they would catch you in an Archpainful Snare. So as to create an Almighty Legion of Cavalry Most Terrible that would Strike, Crush, and Smite, and force from Nature a different Fate for us! Oh, Might, Might, Might! I thus caught you and myself in the Snare and I torture, and torturing I will not cease, be-

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cause I am unable to cease . . . because if I were to slacken you would tan my hide . . . That is why there is no slack! No slack! . . . ’’ This he whispered into my ear, pale, trembling, shaking, his jaws chattering, fingers clenching and releasing, his voice squeaking, then turning deep. Hence I say to him: ‘‘Well, Mr. Gregory, how does this help you, it won’t be good for your health, you’re also trembling, sweating all over.’’ He whispered: ‘‘Silence, silence! I am trembling because I am frail. But I shall become Strong when this Frailty, Littleness I squelch within me and I will Terrify them. Don’t you try treason, mind the Spur!’’ And he flutters his hand as was his custom from the olden times. Hence the days are like nights, dark, nights like days sleepless in this cellar. Thus there is nothing, just the Spur and Spur, and we sit for hours, for days, for nights we sit and sit and look at each other, and any movement, any move is hard, made difficult in this our mutual Bondage Demoniacal Possession. Oh, where are Baron’s grace and whims and style? Where is Pitskal’s exuberance? Where is Ciumka™a’s eternal fawning? Like worms we’re squirming in this cellar, one fiddles about with another, and when Ease follows Tension, then after Ease there is Tension again, along with the moans of the one that got caught in the Snare of the Spur. Even when we had to do something, take care of something, heat the water, wash the saucepans, we had always to carry it out in pairs, very slowly and carefully, God forbid that we would cause any sudden strike by the spur. And thus from morning ’til evening we Sit, Sit, in

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Silence, or say very little as if we’re enemies yet we carry out everything together. Not ’til night when we’re overcome with sleep (even though one always watches the other), not ’til then, I’m saying, does our chatting begin, and Pitskal wheezes, puffs, and blows, Baron soughs and sighs, Ciumka™a babbles and weeps, while the Accountant mutters something under his breath or his nose. Listening thus to their primeval voices, I understood the entire abyss of my Imprisonment—because methinks ’tis not Today’s, not Yesterday’s, but most likely the Day before Yesterday’s Imprisonment, and how is one to struggle Today with something that is surely taking place at an ancient time . . . Hey, the old forest, dark and primeval! Hey, age-old and dense woods! Hey, the old Granary, the old Barn, the Sluice, and the Mill by the water . . . Thus they chat in their sleep, one gets the other’s spleen, wheezes at him, the other grumbles, one prattles, prattles something, plays the wiseguy, wiseguy, ’til one day the Office worker Miss Zofia arrives, caught by the Accountant in the snare, and the same day toward evening the Cashier is lured and caught. More and more boisterous, exuberant their nocturnal Mumbles become, one man agitates and flings about, another murmurs ‘‘coddlie, waddlie’’ or ‘‘coolie, woolie,’’ and from this talk my hair stands on end, my heart grows faint, as if I am in hell’s regions residing. And within a few days all the Women Office Workers to the cellar have been lured, not a bare spot on the ground remaining for a man to lie down on . . . In this crush, olden days, olden days return, and not even olden but Past-olden . . . Thus Pitskal his

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broken fingernail shows to Baron, to Ciumka™a, while the Cashier says ‘‘Joseph, Joseph, don’t cry,’’ and the Bookkeeper weeps! Or the Small Fish suddenly float up, then the Bun bitten into long ago . . . then again the strike of the Spur, pain anew and torture! It was hard to believe, nor could one’s head fathom it all, especially during the day: since the door of the cellar was locked merely by a small hook, it was just a matter of getting up, taking two steps and walking out into the dearie sun, into freedom, o God, o God, why were we sitting here, o God, o God, we all want to leave forsooth . . . and out there is Freedom . . . One’s head cannot encompass it! The mind shudders! One day it thus occurred to me, how is it, it just cannot be, surely everyone here wants to leave, and I shall Leave, Leave, oh, I’m Leaving right now, Leaving! . . . I thus rose and proceeded to the door; not believing their eyes, they’re watching me Leave, and ’tis as if their hope was rising . . . they turn into stone . . . Suddenly Pitskal moved; Baron shrieked, stuck the Spur into him; having fallen to the ground with a squeak, Pitskal wanted to jab me but missed; then Miss Zofia stuck her barb into me; and thus we were all on the ground in Convulsions and in Foam! But why, oh, what’s it for, why, to what purpose, what for, for what, and why? H And hence ’tis Emptiness. Everything is empty, like an empty Bottle, like a Reed, like a Barrel, a shell. And though terrible is our torture ’tis forsooth empty, empty, and empty is our Fear,

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empty our Pain, and empty is the Accountant himself, like a Void Vessel. And this is why there is no end to torture, and we could sit here a thousand years not knowing why, what for. Will I ever make my way out of this empty coffin? Will I be forever dying among these people, sunken into their preprimeval times, will I ever emerge into the dearie sun, walk out into freedom? Is my life forever to remain subterranean? The Son, Son, Son! I wanted to escape, to run to the son, in the Son was my reprieve, my consolation! Oh, how I longed for his pink, fresh cheeks, in this nether land, for his bright, shining eyes, his blond curls, oh how I would relax, take reprieve in his Grove and by the River. Here, among the monsters, indeed, in God’s entire world, oh, so Devilish, I had no mainstay, no wellspring in this emptiness, in this drought of mine, other than the Son, full of his life-juices. In this my longing for the Son, in my desire for the Son, I undertook a daring Resolve that could have only been inspired by despair, and I thus said to the Accountant: ‘‘This is good, but too little, too little! Not enough Torture, Fear! More Torture, Fear, more Pain there must be. And why are we, like rats, in the cellar sitting, while a Deed is needed! Let us carry out a Deed to fill us with Awe and Power!’’ I thus counseled. Hence, if my counsel were to diminish Pain and Awe, they would have gored me with the Spur, like a traitor. But since my counsel actually insisted on greater gruesomeness and called for a Deed, nobody dared oppose it, and chiefly the Accountant himself (even though he’s pale, shaking, sweating profusely). I shout: ‘‘Cowards! ’Tis a Deed that I de-

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mand, a terrible, a Most Terrible Deed!’’ They look at me, they gawk; they think that I perchance say this out of duplicity, that there is a ruse here; but they likewise think that if anybody were to rise against my counsel he’d be forthwith stuck with a spur (since he’s shown his fear of Gruesomeness). And the Accountant, realizing the gruesomeness of my Counsel, likewise cannot reject it and thereby lose his own Gruesomeness. Thus putting heads together. Says one: ‘‘Kill the Minister.’’ Says another: ‘‘ ’Tis not enough to kill; must torture unto death.’’ A third one says: ‘‘Not enough to torture the Minister unto death, must kill his wife and kiddies!’’ Says Zofia: ‘‘Not enough to kill his children; better to Blind them.’’ And thus, in the emptiness of their Counseling, the Deed grows more terrible, while the Accountant, his hair standing on end, his brow pale and beaded, to all the voices he listens as if down the ladder to Hell descending. But I say unto them: ‘‘ ’Tis all too little, too little, Mr. Henry and Mr. Constantine, too little, Mr. Gregory! What of it if we kill the Minister or his wife, ’tis naught new to kill Ministers, ’tis an ordinary deed and not terrible enough. We need a Deed that will have no rhyme or reason and will serve as pure and naked Gruesomeness and ghastliness. We thus better kill Ignatio, Thomas’s son, because death, dealt this young man for no reason, will be more ghastly than any other. And such a death will impart to you, Gregory, so much Awe, that Nature, Fate, the whole world will shit their pants afore you, as afore a Potentate!’’ Thusly they exclaim: ‘‘Kill, kill!’’ . . . and they hit each other with spurs, they howl. But the Accountant says

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Wanly, terribly: ‘‘To hell with it, to hell, I will not let you out of here, you shall never leave this place!’’ Putting heads together. I say to them: ‘‘Leave we must, because there’s naught more terrible we can achieve here; ’tis likewise not the cellar but the Spur that imprisons us. Thus, if we leave in a bunch, the Spurs at our boots, nobody can slip away from anybody else . . . no fear! But first, I’ll ride with Mr. Gregory to Gonzalo’s, where Ignatio resides with his father, and there we’ll plan the Murder. Because ’tis not easy to kill somebody, everything must be well thought out. Likewise with spurs we’ll ride the horses, and I trust that Gregory will prod me with a barb, were I to attempt escape or treason.’’ Hence they hold counsel, deliberate, consider my Counsel, the Accountant frets and fusses, my venture is not to his liking. Thus I exclaim: ‘‘Whoever is a coward, or weak, or afraid, or is looking for excuses, let us deal him a barb to give him courage!’’ Forthwith exclaimed, Roared the Accountant: ‘‘I cannot refuse this counsel since ’tis Devilish!’’ Thus on two sorrel horses that they gave us at the Manège to Gonzalo’s hacienda across the fields we speed; and the Accountant’s gallop next to my gallop resounds! Speeds the Accountant! I speed next to him! Endless prairies! Immeasurable distance that cools the brow, though with a shotgun we’d rather go after birds, after hares, rest or nap by a country path . . . but the Spur is with us. And so is our Deed that we must execute. And I no longer know whether I’m speeding to the son as his Executioner, his Torturer, or to a wellspring to refresh my parched

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lips . . . while the din of our Empty Gallop, the din of our Emptiness on the prairies of the pampas and empty expanses like a Bell, like a Drum resounds! O God, o God, how is it that I’m riding, speeding as an executioner, how can I be this my son’s executioner?! So when we arrived at a large chestnut tree, I whacked the Spur into the Accountant’s horse from which comes a Squeak, a Leap, the spur breaks, the horse, head down, carries him off, and the executioner my Torturer, carried off by his own horse dissolves into the mists of the pampas. I was left on these meadows all alone. Oh, how Empty, how Quiet, oh, a little Bug, oh, a birdie perched on a branch . . . But the Son, Son, to the Son, to the Son! Into gallop then and the Son, to the Son, the Son, to the Son, the horses’ hooves din into the ground! And forthwith in front of me are the baobabs of the Gonzalo hacienda, forthwith the green copse of trees, of shrubs leaf out . . . but what is this din that mixes with the din of my horse, perchance they’re banging in the stakes, perchance doing the laundry . . . because when my horse’s hooves bangbang, there goes Boom and Boom and Bang, and when my horse goes bang-bang, bang-bang, then Bang-Boom and Bang and Boom resounds behind the trees! Hence they’re playing ball! After dismounting my horse, I run out from behind a tree, and there is Gonzalo playing ball with Ignatio, while on the sidelines Horatio accompanies Ignatio with the stakes: and when Ignatio Bangs into the ball, Horatio Booms into a stake, with a Bang-boom they’re banging! Thomas is walking about the orchard, eating plums . . .

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When they saw me, they ran to greet me, but Gonzalo exclaimed, raising his arms high: ‘‘For God’s sake, you must have perchance risen from the grave, why are you so wasted?’’ Forthwith they gave me food and drink, they likewise washed me since I hardly had the strength to move on my own. I then sat on a bench in the garden under a tree, and Gonzalo asked me: ‘‘God have mercy on you, where did you disappear, what was happening to you these past days?’’ I couldn’t tell him the truth because he’d be no help to me in any way, and he’d surely not believe me: that’s how far from truth the truth would be. I thus said that, having walked out onto a field I suddenly fell ill; and, having lost consciousness, some people took me to a hospital, and there for many days between Life and Death I lingered. He looked at me and perchance he doubted the veracity of my words, because I read suspicion in his gaze. But what was Gonzalo to me, what was the threat of the Accountant’s Pursuit and the Chevaliers’ of the Spur Revenge now that I see the Son, that the Son is before me, and so is his fresh voice, his robust laughter, his movements, the joy of his whole body, his nimbleness! And a meadow, perchance a grove by the river, fresh, cool . . . H However, what’s this, what’s this? What a change in those Movements, in this laughter! What is happening? And the Nincompoop’s audacity! Because they are forthwith, you know, One with the Other, One to the Other, ’tis almost like a dance, a dance, naught else. When one Waves his Hand, the other lifts

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his Leg. When one climbs a tree, the other is onto a horse cart, thus when one Hams, the other Scrams, one eats a plum, the other a wild pear, when one Wheezes, the other Sneezes, and when one Skips the other Blinks. And thus goes their Rhyming, ceaseless Chiming, one with the other, one to the other, as if in a poem, such is their Associating, eternal, uninterrupted in every movement, every motion, it seems one cannot take a step without the other. While Gonzalo is tapping his feet, clapping his hands, he’s thus rejoicing, rejoicing to the point of dropping his sixteenth-century-like slippers and his morning trumpery. Thomas is eating plums on the side; but he’s continuously watching it all. Thomas is watching, Gonzalo is tapping his feet, with his Bang-boom resounding, he’s uniting the two boys under the trees, the little setters sniff with their lop-eared sniffers, but ’tis Empty, Empty . . . and so is the Bang-boom empty like an Empty Drum. Meanwhile, in the emptiness of the Drum’s thunder the fruit of the homicide is ripening, but one doesn’t know: will it be Filicide or Patricide? While there in the distant cellar they’re surely vowing Punishment, Revenge, and, frothing at the mouth calling for my torment, for my Torture. Here little flies are buzzing. Finally by the evening Gonzalo took me aside and poking me in the ribs, exclaimed: ‘‘Did you see how Ignatio with my Horatio has chummed up? How Horatio has pulled him into fun and games? Hence they’re like a pair of bay colts to me that I can ride wherever I want!’’ And he danced. Then he asked: ‘‘What is it about this carnival cavalcade?’’

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‘‘What carnival cavalcade?’’ said I. Said he: ‘‘Well, Councilor Podsrotski rode up here and whispered in secret that H.E. the Minister will with his guests hail to my house in a carnival cavalcade; since it is the custom in your country to Arrive in a Carnival Cavalcade. This the Councilor confessed to me in secret so that I would prepare the house a bit and ready some comestibles.’’ Then he exclaimed: ‘‘H.E. the Envoy has suddenly taken a fancy to dancing! And why does he want to visit my home? I don’t know.’’ He looked at me askance with his cute little Eye and said: ‘‘You, traitor, where have you been, what were you doing, who were you chumming up with, were you scheming against me? But even if you have schemed up something, ’tis too late, too late . . . because this night the Father will fall dead, we will kill the Father today!’’ We were sitting on a bench under a chestnut tree, I still felt very weak, my head was shaking so I rested it on the back of the bench. Thus I asked him: ‘‘What do you intend?’’ ‘‘Bang-boom!’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘with a Bang-boom, with a bang-boom!’’ ‘‘What’s this you’re saying? What’s this you’re saying?’’ ‘‘Bang-boom, bang-boom, with a bang-boom, bang-boom!’’ ‘‘What do you intend? What are your intentions?’’ Frolicking about with his soft little hands, he exclaimed: ‘‘Do you remember when, erstwhile, Ignatio banged, Horatio

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boomed to him from the sidelines in response? Now they’ve chummed up, when Horatio booms, Ignatio bangs back to him! And now they’ve teamed up so well that ’tis impossible for one not to boom when the other has banged! Thus ’tis all according to my idea, according to my intent! And, this night we’ll hit the Old Man with a Bangboom, because, when Horatio booms him, Ignatio, out of sheer momentum, even though ’tis his Father, bang him he must. And he will thus kill his Father! He won’t even notice it!’’ And he took off to gambol between the trees. Despite my weakness I was seized with laughter and, with laughter shaking, I exclaimed: ‘‘Good God, so that’s what you’ve thought up? With a Bangboom! With a Bangboom!’’ He stopped gamboling and said: ‘‘With a Bangboom and, as God is in heaven, with a bangboom, a bangboom, and I’m telling you, thus it will happen, will happen . . . ’’ To the right, to the left I looked: here little bushes, there red currants, while the sun’s rays shimmer between leaves, farther on Horatio and Ignatio by a barrel . . . in the distance Thomas walks about in the orchard, picks up a plum, looks at it, eats it. I was just about to tell Gonzalo to cease such palaver because ’tis an Impossible Thing . . . but a big Dog German Shepherd came up to be petted, and he bleated like a Ram; and his tail he was wagging, but his tail was a rat’s tail. In my weakness, I thus look at Gonzalo again, but perchance this is not Gonzalo but Gonzala, his Hand a cute little Hand plump and Small though big and hairy; and his fingers Sugary, Lean, though Big Stubby

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Fingers, yet Cute Little Fingers it seems; and he blinks his Eye, blinks, but the Eye is a Cute Little Eye . . . I say to him: ‘‘ ’Tis an impossible thing, impossible . . . and you surely won’t do it, because how so with a Bangboom, Bangboom . . . ’’ He leaps. He frolics. ‘‘With a Bangboom! A Bangboom! And when my Iggy goes for his Old Man with a bangboom, he will surely soften to me, be more partial to me, because this is a Crime!’’ Over there Ignatio and Horatio are rolling a barrel. In the distance Thomas is taking a walk. Thus I say: ‘‘You’re not going to do this . . . Don’t do it, don’t . . . ’’ but my words are like Pepper, a Weed, and such was the emptiness within me that he didn’t even reply, just watched his cute little fingernails under a light. I thusly rose and said: ‘‘I’ll walk around the orchard a bit . . . ’’ and even though my legs could hardly carry me, I walked away from him. He ran to the Ball-court. I’m walking about in the orchard and thus methinks: ‘‘ ’Tis with a Bangboom they will hit him . . . ’’ But Thomas is walking along the footpaths, and I stepped up to him; but forthwith I had to sit on the grass, because my legs failed me. We’re thus sitting on the grass under a plum tree, and Thomas says: ‘‘Have you noticed how Iggy has chummed up with that Horatio? Well, more power to him! But I’m just walking about here, pondering . . . perchance it won’t be thus much longer . . . ’’ I ask: ‘‘You’re thinking of doing what you said you would?’’ He says: ‘‘Oh yes, oh yes.’’ ’Tis nice and cool on the grass . . . likewise birdies are chirping . . . the aroma of trees, of fruit, of shrubs, while a Tiny Little

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Bug is climbing a blade of grass . . . But I say: ‘‘By the living God, you’re still steadfast in your intent?’’ He replies: ‘‘Oh yes, oh yes . . . I shall kill my Son . . . ’’ Hearing this I want to say something, but what’s the use prattling . . . and the Bangboom resounds again, and they’re pounding as if on a Drum, and there is the sound of the Empty Drum among the trees, shrubs, parrots, feathery hummingbirds, and under the palms, under the cacti . . . Listening to those reverberations, Thomas lowered his head, leveled the palm of one hand to the other and muttered: ‘‘Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow . . . ’’ The buzzing of big, golden flies and the screech of the parrots made me more and more sleepy. And thus I pondered: ‘‘If he kills him, so he kills him. Kills him dead, so he kills him dead. The others will kill him dead, so they will. They will catch me with the Spur, so they’ll catch me. They will arrive in a Carnival Cavalcade, so they’ll arrive . . . Gonzalo ordered fruit to be brought, we ate fruit, they then served the evening repast in the gazebo . . . and for the dessert so strange, some Blend of Layer-cake, like Little Pretzels, yet they’re Wafers. And methinks: ‘‘Strange are the ways of this world! . . .’’ Thus methinks, while the Nincompoop and Iggy eat almost together, because when one swallows a spoonful of soup, the other follows with a bite of bread . . . but methinks: if Together, then let it be together! Too many of these Strange Things, too many, too many, whatever wants to happen let it happen, as long as I can repose, repose.

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But when night enveloped the earth with its mantilla and big fireflies were under the trees, and from the orchard’s murkiness came the sounds of all and sundry animals, likewise the Mewing Bark or Squeaky Rattle, my quietude, my gloom with disquietude began to fill. And methinks: ‘‘Why aren’t you afraid when you should be Afraid? Why aren’t you surprised when surprise is called for? Why are you Sitting thus, why aren’t you Doing Something when you should be Running, Speeding? Where is your fear, where your perturbation? And thusly grows my Terror precisely because of lack of Terror, and in the emptiness, in the silence it grows, and like a Protuberance oppresses me. Thomas’s design—Gonzalo’s design—the Nincompoop’s fun and games with Iggy—the Accountant’s terrible Spur pursuing me and threatening revenge—the Minister’s idea to arrive in a carnival cavalcade—all this was distending, resounding like an Empty Drum, while I am sitting . . . While there, beyond the Water, beyond the Forest, beyond the Barnyard ’tis surely all quiet, and the great expanses of Fields, of Forests are no longer filled with weapons rattling, but filled instead with the numb silence of defeat. Thomas went to bed. Likewise did Ignatio and Horatio, likewise the wily Gonzala for repose repaired; I was thus left alone with my Terrifying Lack of Terror. H I then resolved to go to the Son. Oh, the Son, Son, Son! To him I will go, I’ll see him once more in the night and will per-

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chance feel some emotion . . . perchance I’ll refresh myself with his freshness . . . Thus dark is the hallway and long, and I’m stepping over the Boys sleeping there on the floor . . . and I’m going, going . . . but I no longer know whether I’m going as Gonzalo’s or Thomas’s confidant . . . but I’m going perchance on behalf of the Chevaliers of the Spur to murder this youth . . . and my Going is heavy like a cloud, yet empty, empty. I thus reached his small room and this I see: he’s lying naked as his mother bore him, and he’s breathing. Hence he’s lying and sleeping, breathing. Oh, how Innocent he is! Oh, how sweetly he is sleeping, how calmly his chest is swelling! Oh, what Beauty, what Health! Oh, no, no, I will not deliver you to disgrace, I’d rather wake you forthwith and warn you of Gonzalo’s ambush, and perchance tell you that they are inveigling you into a crime on your Father’s person with these fun and games!! . . . How not to tell him this? Am I to let him be bound to Gonzalo through his own father’s death, to be seduced by him and forever fall into Puto’s arms, into his embrace? Indeed, should Puto seduce him from his paternal home and into a dark, black Pathless Wilderness, he will perforce transform him into an Oddity!! . . . Oh, no, never, never on your life! And I was about to reach with my hand to awaken him, Iggy, Iggy, for God’s sake get up, they want to murder your Father! But I look, he’s lying there. And suddenly I am again seized by doubt. Because, if I tell him this, he chases away Gonzalo, Horatio, and he falls weeping at his Father’s feet, what then? Will everything

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be as of old, just as it was? He will thus dwell by his Mighty Father again and continue to follow his Mighty Father by rattling off prayers, hold on to his Mighty Father’s coattails . . . And Ring-around-the-rosie, the same all over again? However, my soul’s desire is this: let something Happen. Oh, let happen whatever will, as long as it moves on . . . because I’m sickened! Because I can’t abide it any longer! ’Tis enough, enough of the old, let there be something New! Give the boy some slack, let him do Whatever he Wants. Let him murder his Father, let him be Without his Father, let him leave his home and on to the Fields, the Fields! Let him sin, let him transform himself into Whatever he Wants, even into a Murderer, a Father Killer! Even into an Oddity! Let him rut with whomever he wants! With this Idea within me, a great nausea seized me and I almost threw up as if something was Breaking within me, Bursting with pain, in a most terrible horror . . . because this was a dreadful, the most dreadful oh perchance the most Disgusting Idea to deliver him, the Son, to sin, to depravity, to soil him, to Spoil, to Destroy him, whatever, whatever, let it be, let it be, why should I be frightened, why should I be disgusted, indeed, let there be whatever must Be, let it break, burst, let it break asunder, break asunder, and oh, the Land of the Sons Becoming the Unknown Land of the Sons! And thus standing before him in the blackness of night (because my match has gone out) I was calling for Night, for Darkness and for Becoming, I was thus chasing him out of his parental paternal home and into the

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Night, and onto the fields. Oh, Night, Night, Night! But what’s this, what’s this? Who is this, riding up to the house? What is this hubbub, this Racket? The shouting, the ruckus, the driving-upto, whips lashing, and ditties, and hooplas. ‘‘Carnival Cavalcade, Cavalcade,’’ they’re shouting! When I saw H.E. the Envoy with the cavalcade arriving, I ran out of the salons to greet the guests. Gonzalo ran out of the house with a lantern, making the sign of the holy Cross, as if he’s just been woken from sleep. They’re shouting, riding up, dismounting and, soughing and racketmaking, they run into the house and proceed through the Salons . . . and with them a band of musicians . . . forthwith they move aside stools, carpets, one person fell, another broke a Lamp, but no matter, stools to the side, tables to the side, and the band struck up all the fiddles! On with the dancing! They’re dancing! Dancing! Up to the summits and down to the fen, Maggie danced with the mountain men!

As the first pair H.E. the Envoy leads the dance with Mrs. Chairman Pscieeski, in the second the Venerable Colonel with H.E. Mrs. Kielbasa, in the third the Venerable Chairman Koopooha with Mrs. Kovnatski, in the fourth Professor Kalisievich with Miss Tootsie, in the fifth Councilor Podsrotski with Miss Mousie, and in the sixth the attorney Vorola with Mrs. Dovielevich. Other couples follow. The crowd! Crowd! ’Tis perforce

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the flower of our Émigré Colony! All the couples! They arrived in a crowd and they’re Dancing in a crowd, hop, hop, twirlie, whirlie, the men’s cleated heels striking sparks, the whole house filling, to the garden spilling. Chirp, chirp, chirp by the chimney, sits Mazovian with his filly! They could have danced all night! Thus the Carnival Cavalcade, Cavalcade! Mr. Zenon seized Miss Luddie, he twirled her: Up to the summits and down to the fen, Maggie danced with the mountain men!

Here the servants run with comestibles, bottles, setting the tables, there Gonzalo issues orders, while the coachmen, farmhands watch through the windows, and thus the house Booms onto the meadows, onto the Fields it bangbooms! Let’s have a drink! Let’s have fun, why aren’t you drinking? One more! Hop, hop, hop, ha, ha, ha! Oh, Miss Sophie! Oh, Miss Maggie! What’s up, Mr. Simon? Hey, Mr. Mathew, ’tis been threescore years, threescore years! Come what may! And Miss Flysie with Miss Tossie run up to me: ‘‘Dance! Dance! ’Tis the carnival cavalcade! . . . ’’ and all hot, sweating, they’re laughing, singing. I then say to Councilor Podsrotski, who is opening a bottle next to me: ‘‘For God’s sake, some glad tidings must perchance have arrived that I know not, because the extraordinary joy of all our Compatriots under the leadership of the Envoy himself cannot be but for our victory over the enemy. Yet I’ve read in the papers that ’tis all over and ours is the defeat.’’ He replied: ‘‘Be quiet, be

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quiet. Indeed, ’tis a crushing defeat, a rout, the end, we are paws up! But we and H.E. the Envoy reckoned it best not to let anybody notice, on the contrary, to arrive here in a Carnival Cavalcade, Cavalcade! Drink and be merry! Pawn your breeches, spread your peaches! ‘‘Pawn your breeches, spread your peaches! ‘‘Pawn your breeches, spread your peaches!’’

And forthwith he raises his mug: ‘‘Cheers! Cheers!’’ ‘‘Cheers!’’ others shout, and the dancers are snaking through all the rooms, and Swaying, with sparks-a-flying, and feet tapping and hands clapping! Then again breaking up into couples and dancing in pairs! While on the sidelines the elders are prattling, Drinksipping, or else on both cheeks smack-kissing, oy, Mr. Walenty, oy, Mr. Francis, and how’s the Doctor’s wife, and the kiddies? One drop more! May God repay you, may God repay you! But the Minister leaps up to me: ‘‘Dance, you dunce, why aren’t you dancing? How is this, don’t you know that a Pole is as easy at dance-hopping as at Rosary-popping? Dance, dance, the Krakovian dance! ‘‘Hoy, poloy, hoy, poloys ‘‘We are all Krakovian boys!’’

I say to him: ‘‘I would dance, but hearsay is that all is lost.’’ He flashed his eyeball to the right to the left: ‘‘Be quiet! Be quiet! Keep your talking to yourself or people will take us for naught! Have you gone daft to brag about it!

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‘‘Pawn your breeches, spread your peaches! ‘‘Pawn your breeches, spread your peaches!

‘‘Oy, hop, hop, hop! On with it! Dance, dance! Show the Foreigners how we can dance! And dance, dance! Show off our Ditties, our leap-and-heel-clicking and foot-tapping! Show off our Lassies, what Lads we have! Our blood is not water! Hop, hop, hop! Let them see our Beauty! Oberek, Mazurka, Mazurka! ‘‘ ’cause a Mazur has a soul, ‘‘Though he’s dead, it still will roll!

‘‘Dance, dance, dance! . . . ’’ I fell to my knees. But old Mr. Kacheski came up to me, he wanted to step outside for his need, and didn’t want the Dogs to pounce on him . . . I thus went outside with him and, while he’s relieving himself in a bush, I’m looking at the house that onto the fields, the forests explodes with light and exuberant Fun and Games. The sky above is black, Droopy, it seems. While here the Cavalcade rumbles, or else it Charms, likewise Loves itself love-smitten as if Enamored, and is in love, in Love, oh, what swiftness and spryness, while from the shod heels sparks are flying, and it Loves itself, Loves, with itself is Infatuated, likewise in Love, and let’s Love one another, Love one another, hop, hop, hop! Oh, how they Love one another, Love, Love . . . While the sky is black, empty; and nearby a dark bush, inscrutable . . . farther on stand two trees . . . while father on a big lump, yet Dark, Immobile . . . And something shuffled behind the bushes, near the fence. I

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looked, and there a strange creature slipped by, limping: a calf, not a calf, perchance a big Dog, but hoofed and seemingly hunchbacked. I parted the bush and I noticed another, similar Creature bounding under the magnolias, actually as if riding a dog bareback: but it had two human heads! When I saw two human heads, it gave me the creeps, and my first wish was to run back to the house; but I restrained myself and to observe this uncleanness I resolved. I thus walked to one side, along the fence, behind the bushes: and there was shuffling, prancing, seemingly of horses . . . their leaps heavy, they are groaning. And Panting, seemingly human. Or else there’s seemingly soft Squeaking, stifled, or kicking, or Trampling. And seemingly a lot of it, even though ’tis not dogs, nor horses, nor people. I thus crept closer through the bushes, ’til in the semidarkness, about fifty paces away, I saw a huge Heap . . . Because it stood in a Heap behind the trees, as if jumping, as if running wild, yet with a bit between its teeth and restrained, as if in one place with Hooves hitting . . . and Snorting, a soft, stifled squeak, or else a groan, almost human . . . This sight being so Painful and so Terrible, so Dreadful, Most Dreadful, I turned into a pillar of salt, as if frozen, I could not move. Suddenly one of those creatures approached me in awkward jumps (just like a rider on a horse when he’s breaking in a horse and is drilling it with a spur and reining it in with a bit), and this was Baron! Baron atop Ciumka™a! And forthwith a second Rider rode up whom I recognized to be the Accountant: he, trampling heavily sat on Cieciszowski and was treating him to the spur and

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with a bit reining him in, so Ciecisz snorted and squeaked! The Accountant then grunted softly, Horribly: ‘‘Is everything ready?’’ ‘‘Ready,’’ Baron grunted terribly. ‘‘Not yet!’’ the Accountant grunted in terror. ‘‘We are not Terrible enough! More Spurs to our horses! Let them carry us off ! Not until our Cavalry becomes arch-hellish will I give the sign to attack and we shall Strike! And when we strike, we shall Trample! And when we have trampled, we shall Rout them! And we shall conquer, Conquer!’’ ‘‘We’ll conquer!’’ mouthed Ciumka™a with a squeak, with a black gob. ‘‘We shall conquer because we are Terrible, Terrible, oh, Smite and Kill, Terrify, Terrify, Mount your horses, Mount!’’ ‘‘Smite and Kill,’’ they gobbed. ‘‘Smite and Kill!’’ When I heard these words resounding crazily in the garden’s nocturnal silence, I took a jump and ran through the bushes to the house, and I barred the door behind me as if against the Plague. God be merciful! I had to warn everyone to close the doors, the windows, and to arms, to arms! Oh, those Devils Incarnate! But what’s this, what’s this! What is this sound, this resounding? I look: all the couples are dancing! Oy, hop, hop, hop! Ignatio is likewise dancing, he’s with Miss Tootsie dancing, and he’s turning her so briskly and gallantly, so bravely twirling around that the dancer in his arms is naught but whirring . . . even surprising the Elders . . . they’re even clapping applause . . . But when he Stomps, someone somewhere Clomps, and likewise when he Leaps, someone Skips . . . but ’twas surely none other than Horatio who seized Miss Flysie to dance, and he so swiftly

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whirls her and twirls her that his dancer is whirring, whirring, whirring! Thus the two are pounding, and tapping and turning, to the right to the left Twirling so that the ladies are like spinning tops! Oh, how they’re dancing, dancing! And when Ignatio leaps, Horatio Skips, when Horatio stomps, then Ignatio clomps, clomps, and when one whirls then the other Twirls, and step, bang, bang and boom, bang and boom bang, and boom, boom, bang, bang, Bangboom, Bang, Bang, bang, boom, bang, bang, bang, with Bangboom they’re dancing! With a Bangboom! The sound of Bangboom, like a Drum resounds louder and louder! Gonzalo in an ample, black Mantilla, in a likewise Hat, twice walks the length of the hall, with his clapping honoring the dancers. While I, hearing the Bangboom’s call, lower my head and slightly close my eyelids . . . and ’tis so empty, empty, like a Drum empty! . . . Then the Minister skipped up to me: ‘‘For God’s sake!’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘What is this! They must be drunk! To hell with such dancing, they’re drowning out the music, grab them by their pates, throw them out! . . . ’’ But as Ignatio Banged, so Horatio Boomed, Boom, Bang, Bang rattling the windowpanes, cups are jumping, also the saucers, even the floorboards are moaning! Then other dancers try to dance, seconding, because ’tis a Carnival Cavalcade after all, Cavalcade, Mazurka, Mazurka, but forget it! The Cavalcade is no more, just the Bangboom, Bangboom, and they flocked into a corner, they look, and here is Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Bang, Bang, Boombang, banging like a Horse! Thomas picked up a long knife for carving meat, sup-

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posedly wanting to cut meat . . . but he slipped it into his frock coat pocket . . . I thus wanted to shout, this is Filicide, Filicide! But no, ’tis Patricide! Because forthwith, with skips and jumps and foottapping, Bang, boom, the boombanged Ignatio together with bangbooming Horatio, keeps banging, banging, banging! Boom into a lamp Horatio, Bang into a lamp Ignatio, then Boom bang Horatio into a vase, Ignatio bang into a vase! And boom Horatio into Thomas! O God, Thomas fell to the ground! . . . Thomas fell to the ground! . . . And suddenly bang, bang, in haste arrives Ignatio with his Bang, oh, and he’ll bang, bang into his Father he’ll Bang, oy, so he will Bang him, Bang . . . Oh, the Son, Son, Son! Let the Father croak! In haste arrives Ignatio. Let there be what must. Let the Son murder the Father! But what’s this? What’s this? Oh, perchance Salvation! Oh, what’s this, how so, what is this? Oh, perchance Salvation! Because, as Ignatio is thus in haste with his Bang arriving, flying, and everyone stands Dead-still, he bursts out laughing. And instead of his Father with a Bang Banging, he Ha-ha-ha’s into laughter, and, having Ha-ha-ha’ed with laughter, he leaps over his Father, and, thus having leapt aside, he Ha-ha-ha’s with laughter, he Ha-ha-ha’s! ’Tis Laughter then, Laughter! The Minister clutches his belly, ha-ha-ha’s with laughter! And Brouhaha, Brouhaha, Pitskal clutches Baron by the belly, and the Accountant likewise does to Ciecisz, and they ha-ha-ha with Laughter, ’tis brouha, brouha, Brouhaha, Brouhaha, there the Elders are

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Croaking ’til they’re Reeling, here Mrs. Dovielevich squeaks withal, sheds tears, squeaks, and Brouhaha, Brouhaha the Parish Priest booms, Spatters, bursts with laughter, while Flysie and Tootsie Jump up and down ’til they’re be-snotted! Thus laughter is Booming! Thus reeling is Chairman Putsek! While by the walls they’re Wheezing, Fall apart at the Seams, elsewhere they’re Choking, Can’t Hold on any longer, and here somebody’s got a Belly-cramp so he’s Doubled up, or Choking, something’s surely squirting out his ears, another one has slid to the ground, stretched his legs, and on he Brouhahas, he Booms all a-shaken, running wild with laughter, and he’s Shaking, shaking . . . Yet another must have swelled because he’s busting! On they’re going Brouhaha! Then ’tis quiet for a bit. Then again, ’tis this one or another, first one then the other, then three, four, five of them Ha-ha, Ha-ha-ha, they Bust with laughter, take each other into their arms, they Reel, through thick or thin they Toss together, then one another, one with the other, they go Brouhaha, oy, they Roar, Roar, ’til they perchance Brouhaha. And on from Laughter to Laughter, Ha-ha with Laughter, ha-ha with Laughter, they ha-ha, ha-ha, they Ha-ha-ha! . . .

Witold Gombrowicz (1904–1969) is the author of four novels, Ferdydurke, Trans-Atlantyk, Pornografia, and Cosmos; several plays; and the Diary, his major nonfiction work. His writings have been translated into more than thirty languages. He is known for his iconoclastic treatment of humankind’s major issues and for his innovative approach to language. He won the prestigious Prix International for Cosmos in 1967.

Danuta Borchardt, a retired psychiatrist, is a freelance writer and translator. Her translation of Witold Gombrowicz’s novel Ferdydurke received the ALTA National Translation Award in 2001, she was awarded an NEA fellowship for her Cosmos, and her Pornografia won the Found in Translation Award from the Polish Book Institute in 2010. Her translation of the poems of the nineteenthcentury Polish poet Cyprian Norwid, Poems, was published in 2011. Borchardt’s short fiction has regularly appeared in Exquisite Corpse. She lives in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and is currently working on a memoir on how she came to translate Witold Gombrowicz’s novels.