Bacacay

by Witold Gombrowicz

  We sat down on the old-fashioned red furniture and began an introductory conversation. But the very first courteous commonplaces came up against an indefinable resistance, and instead of the fluidity that one wished for, things kept breaking off and getting stuck. I: “I expect you were surprised to hear a knock at the door at this hour?” They: “A knock? Oh, that’s right ...” I, politely: “I’m very sorry to have alarmed you, but otherwise I think I would have had to roam the fields all night, like Don Quixote, ha ha!” They (awkwardly and softly, not seeing fit to respond to my little joke even with a conventional smile): “Not at all, you’re welcome.” —What was this? It looked truly bizarre—as if they were offended by me, or they were afraid of me, or they felt sorry for me, or they were embarrassed for me.... Planted in their armchairs, they avoided my gaze, nor did they look at each other; they bore my company with the greatest discomfort—it seemed that they were preoccupied exclusively with themselves, and the whole time they were worried only that I might say something to insult them. In the end it begin to irritate me. What were they afraid of, what was it about me? What sort of reception was this, aristocratic, timid, and proud? And when I asked about the purpose of my visit, in other words about Mr. K., the brother looked at the sister as if each were letting the other go first—in the end the brother swallowed and said distinctly, distinctly and solemnly, as if it were I don’t know what: “Yes, he is indeed at home.”

  It was exactly as if he had said: “The King, my Father, is at home!”

  Supper was also somewhat eccentric. It was served carelessly, not without scorn for the food and for me. The appetite with which I in my hunger devoured the gifts of the Lord appeared to arouse the indignation even of the solemn butler Szczepan, not to mention the brother and sister, who attended in silence to the noises I made over my plate—and you know how hard it is to swallow when someone is listening—against one’s will every mouthful descends into the throat with a terrible gulping sound. The brother’s name was Antoni, and the sister was called Miss Cecylia.

  All at once I looked up—who was this coming in? A dethroned queen? No, it was their mother, Mrs. K., approaching slowly; she gave me a hand cold as ice, looked at me with a hint of dignified surprise and sat down without a word. She was a small, corpulent, even fat individual, one of those old country matrons who are implacable when it comes to all sorts of principles, especially social ones—and she eyed me sternly, with boundless surprise, as if I had an obscene saying written on my forehead. Cecylia made a gesture in an attempt to explain, or to justify—but the gesture died in midair, and the atmosphere became even more artificial and oppressive.

  “I expect you’re rather disappointed on account of ... this futile journey,” said Mrs. K. suddenly—and in such a tone! A tone of indignation, the tone of a queen to whom someone has failed to bow for the requisite third time—as if eating chops constituted a crime of lèse majesté!

  “The pork chops here are excellent!” I replied in anger, since despite myself I was feeling ever more vulgar, foolish, and uncomfortable.

  “Chops ... chops ...”

  “Antoś still hasn’t said anything, Mama,” the timid Cecylia burst out all of a sudden, quieter than a mouse.

  “What do you mean, he hasn’t said anything? What do you mean, you haven’t said anything? You still haven’t said anything?”

  “What for, Mama?” whispered Antoni; he turned pale and gritted his teeth, as if he were about to sit in the dentist’s chair.

  “Antoś ...”

  “I mean ... What for? It makes no difference ... there’s no point —there’ll always be time,” he said and fell silent.

  “Antoś, how can you? What do you mean it makes no difference? What are you saying, Antoś?”

  “No one could be ... It’s all the same ...”

  “You poor thing!” whispered his mother, stroking his hair, but he brushed her hand aside roughly.—“My husband,” she said dryly, turning to me, “died last night.”—What?! So he was dead? So that was it! I interrupted my meal—I set down my knife and fork —I hurriedly swallowed the morsel I had in my mouth.—How could this be? It was only yesterday that he had picked up my telegram from the station! I looked at them: all three of them were waiting. They were modest and grave, but—they were waiting, with stern, reserved faces and pursed lips; they were waiting stiffly —what on earth were they waiting for? Oh, that’s right, condolences had to be offered!

  It was so unexpected that to begin with I was completely put out of countenance. In my confusion I rose from my chair and mumbled something indistinctly along the lines of: “I’m terribly sorry ... I’m very ... I’m sorry.”—I fell silent, but they did not respond whatsoever, for this was still too little for them; with lowered eyes and unmoving faces, their clothes untidy, he unshaven, the women with disheveled hair, their fingernails dirty—they all stood without saying anything. I cleared my throat, desperately thinking of where to begin, the right expression, but it so happened that my head was completely empty, a void, as I’m sure has happened to you too, while they—they were waiting, immersed in their suffering. They were waiting without looking—Antoni was drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop, Cecylia was embarrassedly picking at the hem of her dirty gown, and their mother stood motionless, as if turned to stone, with that stern, unyielding matronly expression. All at once I began to feel uneasy, despite the fact that as an investigating magistrate I had dealt with hundreds of deaths in my time. But that was just it ... how shall I put it—an unsightly murdered corpse covered with a blanket is one thing; quite another is a worthy fellow who has died of natural causes and is laid out on a catafalque; a certain unceremoniousness is one thing, while quite another is a death that is above board, accustomed to considerations, to manners—death, you could say, in all its majesty. No, I repeat, I would never have been so perturbed if they had told me everything at once. But they were too uncomfortable. They were too afraid. I don’t know whether it was simply because I was an intruder, or whether they were perhaps in some way embarrassed by my profession in such circumstances, because of a certain ... matter-of-factness that my many years of practice must have formed in me; but in any case—this embarrassment of theirs embarrassed me terribly, embarrassed me, in fact, entirely disproportionately.

  I stammered something about the respect and affection I had always felt for the deceased. Recalling that since our schooldays I had never met him once, a fact that could have been known to them, I added: “During our schooldays.” They still made no reply, and I had after all to finish somehow, to round things off; and finding nothing else to say, I asked: “Could I see the body?”—and the word “body” somehow came out most unfavorably. Yet my confusion evidently appeased the widow; she burst into painful tears and gave me her hand, which I kissed humbly.

  “In the night,” she said dazedly, “Last night ... I got up this morning ... I went in ... I called—Ignaś, Ignaś—but there was no response; he was lying there ... I fainted ... I fainted ... And from that moment my hands haven’t stopped trembling—see for yourself.”

  “What’s the point, Mama?”

  “They’re trembling ... they haven’t stopped trembling”—she raised her arms.

  “Mama,” Antoni repeated from the side, in a half-whisper.

  “They’re trembling, trembling—of their own accord; see, they’re trembling like aspen leaves ...”

  “No one is ... no one will be ... it makes no difference. It’s embarrassing!” he burst out violently and suddenly turned his back and walked away. “Antoś!” his mother called in fright. “Cecylka, go after him ...” And I stood there and looked at her shaking hands; I had absolutely nothing to say and felt at a loss, growing more and more disconcerted.

  All at once the widow said softly: “You wanted ... Then let us go ... there ... I’ll show you the way.”—In principle I believe—today, when I consider the matter dispassionately—that at the time I had a right to myself and my pork chops; that is, I co
uld and even should have replied: “At your service, ma’am, but I’ll just finish these pork chops, since I’ve not had a bite to eat since midday.” Perhaps, if I had replied in this vein, many tragic events would have been averted. But was it my fault she had terrorized me so much that my pork chops, and I myself, seemed to me something trivial and unworthy of mention, and I was so ashamed all of a sudden that even today I blush at the thought of that embarrassment?

  On the way, on the second floor, where the deceased was to be found, she whispered to herself: “A terrible misfortune ... A blow, an awful blow ... The children said nothing. They’re proud, difficult, reserved; they won’t allow just anyone into their hearts, but rather prefer to worry on their own. They got that from me, from me ... Oh, I only hope Antoś doesn’t do himself any harm! He’s tough, stubborn, he won’t even let his hands twitch. He wouldn’t let anyone touch the body—yet something has to be done, arrangements have to be made. He didn’t cry, he didn’t cry at all ... Oh, if only he had cried at least once!”

  She opened a door—and I had to kneel down with my head bowed, with a look of concentration on my face, while she stood to the side, solemn and still, as if she were showing the Blessed Sacrament.

  The deceased lay on the bed—just as he had died—the only thing they had done was to turn him on his back. His livid, swollen face betokened death by asphyxiation, as was usual in the case of heart attacks.

  “Asphyxiated,” I murmured, though I could clearly see that it was a heart attack.

  “It was his heart, his heart, sir ... He died because of his heart.”

  “Oh, the heart can sometimes asphyxiate . . . it can,” I said lugubriously. She was still standing and waiting—and so I crossed myself, said a prayer, and then (she was still standing there) I said quietly:

  “Such noble features!”

  Her hands were shaking so much that I decided I ought to kiss them again. She did not react with the slightest movement, continuing to stand like a cypress, gazing painfully away toward the wall—and the longer she stood there, the harder it became to avoid showing at least a little heart. This was required by common decency; there was no getting out of it. I rose from my knees, unnecessarily removed a piece of lint from my suit, gave a low cough—and she went on standing. She stood fanatically, silent, with staring eyes, like Niobe, her gaze fixed on her memories, crumpled, disheveled; and a tiny droplet appeared at the tip of her nose and dangled there, and dangled ... like the sword of Damocles—and the candles smoked. After a few minutes I tried to say something softly—she flinched as if she’d been bitten, took a few steps and again stood still. I knelt down. What an intolerable situation! What a dilemma for a person as sensitive, and above all as irritable, as I am! I do not accuse her of deliberate malice; nevertheless, no one will deny that there was malice in this. No one will convince me! It was not she herself, but her malice that gloated insolently at the way I was simpering before her and the corpse.

  Kneeling two paces away from that corpse, the first one I was not able to touch, I stared vacantly at the bedspread that covered him smoothly up to the armpits, at his hands laid carefully over that bedspread—potted plants stood at the foot of the bed, and the face loomed palely from a depression in the pillow. I gazed at the flowers, then I gazed back at the dead man’s face, but nothing came into my head except for one pesky thought, strangely persistent—that this was some kind of prearranged, theatrical scene. Everything looked as if it had been staged—over there the corpse, proud and untouchable, looking indifferently through closed eyes at the ceiling; next to it the grieving widow; and here—I myself, the investigating magistrate, on my knees, like a bad dog forced to wear a muzzle. “What would happen if I were to rise, go up, pull off the bedspread and take a look—to touch at least—to touch with the tip of my finger?” I thought these things—but the grave integrity of death pinned me to my place; pain and virtue kept me from profanation.—Down! That’s forbidden! Hands off! On your knees!—“What is it,” I thought slowly to myself. “Who staged all this? I’m an ordinary, regular fellow—I’m not the right person for such performances ... I wouldn’t advise ... Dammit!” I suddenly decided, “what nonsense! Where did this come from? Could I be acting a part? Where did this artificiality, this affectation come from in me—I’m usually completely different—have they infected me? What is it—ever since I arrived, everything in me has been coming out artificially and pretentiously, as if it were being performed by a third-rate actor. I’ve completely lost myself in this house—I’m acting up most terribly. Hmm,” I murmured, and once again not without a certain theatrical pose (as if I were already sucked into the game and I could no longer return to normality) —“I wouldn’t advise anyone ... I wouldn’t advise anyone to make a demon of me, because I’m prepared to take up the invitation ...” In the meantime the widow had wiped her nose and moved toward the door, talking to herself and clearing her throat as she waved her hands about.

  When I finally found myself alone in my own room, I took off my collar, and instead of placing it on the table, I hurled it to the floor and crushed it with my foot. My face was contorted and infused with blood; my fingers closed convulsively in a manner that was entirely unexpected for me. I was quite clearly in a fury. “They’ve made a fool of me,” I whispered. “That wretched woman ... How they’ve arranged everything so cleverly. They make people pay homage to them—kiss their hands! They demand sentiments from me! Sentiments! They demand to be humored! And I—let’s say, I hate that. And, let’s say—I hate it when they use trembling to make me kiss their hands, when they compel me to mumble prayers, to kneel, to produce false, revoltingly sentimental noises —and above all I hate tears, sighs, and droplets at the tips of noses; whereas I like cleanliness and order.

  “Hmm”—I cleared my throat thoughtfully after a pause, in a different tone, cautious and somehow probing—“they make me kiss their hands? I ought to kiss their feet; isn’t it obvious what I am in the face of the majesty of death and of this family’s pain? ... A coarse, unfeeling police informer, nothing more—my nature has been exposed. Yet ... hmm ... I don’t know if this has been done too hastily; yes, in their place I personally would have been a little more—circumspect ... a little more—modest ... Because some allowance ought to have been made for this abject character of mine, and if not for my ... private character, then ... then ... at least for my official character. This they forgot about. When it comes down to it, I am after all an investigating magistrate, and here after all there is a corpse, and the idea of a corpse somehow rhymes in a not entirely innocent way with the idea of an investigating magistrate. And if for instance I were to look at the course of events from precisely the perspective ... hmm ... of an investigating magistrate,” I thought slowly, “what would transpire then?”

  If you please: A guest arrives who—by chance—is an investigating magistrate. They don’t send horses, they don’t open the door—in fact they make difficulties for him, and so someone must be unwilling to let him into the house. Then he’s received reluctantly, with poorly disguised anger, with fear—and who on earth is afraid, who on earth is angry at the sight of an investigating magistrate? Something is hidden from him and covered up—and in the end it turns out that what was being covered up is ... a corpse that has died of asphyxiation in an upstairs room. How base! When the corpse comes to light, attempts are made by hook or by crook to make him kneel and kiss hands, on the pretext that the deceased died a natural death!

  If anyone, however, should call this notion preposterous, laughable even (for after all, to speak frankly, how can anyone deceive so crudely), they should bear in mind that a moment ago, in my anger, I crushed my collar underfoot—my soundness of mind was impaired, my consciousness dimmed as a result of the resentment I felt, and so it was clear I was not fully responsible for my antics.

  Looking straight ahead, I said with gravity:

  “Something’s not right here.”

  And I began with considerable perspicacity t
o link the chain of facts, to create syllogisms, spin threads, and search for evidence. But soon, wearied by the fruitlessness of this endeavor, I fell asleep. Yes, yes ... The majesty of death is in every regard worthy of respect, and no one could say that I had not rendered to it the necessary honors—but not every death is equally majestic, and, before elucidating this circumstance, if I were them I would not be so sure of myself, the more so because the matter is murky, complex and dubious ... hmm ... hmm ... all the evidence points to this.

  The next morning, as I drank my coffee in bed, I noticed that the serving boy, a thickset, sleepy lad who was lighting the stove, kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye with a faint glimmer of curiosity. He probably knew who I was—and I spoke to him:

  “So your master died?”

  “That he did.”

  “How many servants are there here?”

  “There’s Szczepan and the cook, your honor. Not counting me. And counting me there’s three of us.”

  “Your master died in that upstairs room?”

  “Yeah, upstairs,” he said indifferently, puffing out his fleshy cheeks as he blew on the fire.

  “And you, where do you sleep?”

  He stopped blowing and looked at me—a sharper look this time.

  “Szczepan and the cook sleep in the kitchen, and I sleep on my own in the pantry.”

  “That’s to say, from where Szczepan and the cook sleep there’s no other access to the rest of the house except through the pantry?” I asked further, as if by the by.

  “Only through there,” he answered, and looked at me very sharply now.

  “And where does the lady of the house sleep?”

  “She used to share a room with the master—but now she sleeps next door, in the neighboring room.”

  “Since the master died?”

  “Oh no, she moved before that—it must have been a week or so ago.”

  “And you don’t know why your mistress moved out of the master’s room.”