Trans-Atlantyk

by Witold Gombrowicz

  The Devil take it! When I am for crouching, they would light me high with candelabra! Astounded by the abundance of homages, the proprietress of my Pension would not hear of my staying any longer in that tiny cell of mine and to the best chamber transferred me: so, in these difficult, dangerous times of mine, instead of in a little chamber, in a large Salon with two windows I did find myself. By now the news about that surpassing, God forgive, eminence, greatness of mine went swift as darts amongst all Compatriots: the next day in the Office with very low bows I was received and well-nigh all discourses, raillery in my presence were abandoned.

  The Devil with it, the Devil! Mightier and mightier the Celebration was becoming and seemingly His Excellency the Envoy against my will and with no heed to my violent aversion did as he would, and was spreading the Celebration in divers parts. A pox on’t, whyever did I shew myself before his eyes! And ’tis dangerous, moreover! In normal times such trumperies may be performed, but when over there Slaying, Slaughtering, ’tis better to sit quietly and attend, and take care so as not to call down some evil on oneself.

  I kept swearing and resolving that I would not go to that Reception and any further St. Celebration—oh, Silly mayhap, Paltry—of my person I would not permit. Albeit the Knot is: viz. if now I were to resist the plain desire of His Excellency the Envoy, perchance by all I would be taken as a traitor, the which in the present set of circumstances would exceeding dangerous be. But indeed, sweet the homage of compatriots to a man who since the earliest days of his childhood contempt only has experienced … when here as if by a good fairy they begin to lower their heads before him and take Hat in hand before him. Cursed then, false the homage and likewise exceeding paltry! Yet holy, blessed, true homage as that Forehead of mine, that Eye of mine, that Thought of mine, that truth of mine, and the sincerity of that heart of mine, and that song of mine, and that dignity of Mine! Ergo, this is my right, this is my ermine, this is my crown! And why look a gift horse in the mouth! Oh, so haply I shall go to this Assemblage and permit them to do all that with me there, as I swear by God and my Mother before God, Altar, that he who comes to me with hat in hand does naught wrong, indeed, he does what is best, most right!

  So you there, chitsh.ts, Wile, Guile, and for your own profit as fowls peck. Whatever conceived by your Nature, blunt and wily, I will take according to my Nature and whilst with sh.t you feed me, I as Bread and Wine will eat it and will be Filled. Yet when I as a true master at that reception shine, when as a Master by foreigners am recognized, acclaimed, then His Excellency the Envoy’s folly will dismay me no more, and he needs must respect me, too … Then mount, mount that Horse they are readying for you, and you will go far! Therefore attend I will, I will!

  Whereupon, having returned to my Pension, I opened my trunk at once, and shaving myself, changing, donning my attire, I felt the extraordinary certainty of my Masterdom, and I knew that I had to predominate, dominate all of them. Oh Master, Master, Master and Master! But amazement and Astonishment of mine! For suddenly this utterance behind me I heard: “Hail to our great Author, hail to the Master!” I flinched and cried out, thinking that was the utterance of a scoffer or perchance that it even came out of me. And here Podsrocki, the Counsellor, in striped trousers and tailcoat, all à la pug under hat, is bowing down to me: “Your Excellency, Sir! By request of His Excellency the Envoy I have come here in a cabriolet. Shall we go then?”

  The sound of that plain lie, abruptly before me embodied, was as a whack in the mug! Oh, wherefore does this chitsh.t who thinks me a chitsh.t call me Master? Now we get into the Cabriolet. Now in the cabriolet we are riding; and though heavily bestowing honours, homages each on the other, yet knowing that he knows that I know that he knows that I know, and sh.t, sh.t, sh.t, heavily contemning each other we are; and so in honours and in sh.t we draw up before the house.

  And there, scarce had I alighted from the cabriolet, straightway at me that batch of Compatriots and “Hail, hail,” “Be welcome, be Welcome,” and “glory, fame”; now flowers proffer, now make merry as if ’twere Christmas; and amidst them the Baron; also Pyckal; next Cieciszowski, and also Ciumkala and the Cashier, and the Bookkeeper, and Panna Zofia in a yellow damask gown. In sooth they honour me! The Counsellor beside me most politely to the right, to the left bows; I also bow, greet and so amidst Honours we proceed into that house. And there Quiet.

  I found myself in a large salon; and there many people, some standing and some sitting; and all that eating of petits fours, sipping of wine with Glasses, Goblets in hand; now there a Woman holding out her hand for a Glass; somewhere else a threesome or foursome a book or a Bottle inspects; there sitting in a circle they are, and talking. Yet not clatter or noise but unusual Quietude for, although there was no want of discourse and even laughter, discourse, laughter, exclamations instead of being a bit louder were indeed a bit softer, quietened, and that Motionlessness of motion as Fishes in a pond. The Counsellor politely bent in half, fanning with a handkerchief, leads me to the Host, to him introduces me, and as the Master Great Polish Genius Glorious Gombrowicz praises me. The host, plump, round, the Counsellor’s fanfare with a low bow receives and knowing not how enough to Honour, in courtesies, flourishes melts away … but a Blond lady, thin, small, accosted him and he began to converse with her, forgetting us. Ergo we stand. But to an Old, thin, grey-haired man who was perchance a distinguished guest, the Counsellor leads me and with a fanfare introduces me elaborately—so that the Old Man Bows and honours as one can … but what, since he Forgets us anon as his shoelace has become untied. So we to the third, who of a seemly height, grizzled, and this one clasped his head: “Such an honour!” exclaims … but he took a petit four, ate it, and forgot. Thus, with the Counsellor in the middle we stand, say little, and behind us other Countrymen Kinsmen likewise stand and little say. Say little.

  “Hold,” said the Counsellor…, “we’ll shew them.” Ergo we stand, and about us other Guests stand, some hundred perchance. Very richly dressed and neat, as shirts of Silk or of Cambric for 13, 14 or even 15 Pesos, ties, Cravats, or modish Lorgnettes, likewise Pumps, then narrow-rimmed Heels, kerchiefs, lip rouges, ankle boots of English style for 20 or 30 Pesos. But primarily Men’s socks struck the eye, and by pulling up their trouser legs, they these Socks eagerly shew, whilst ladies do each others’ Hats assess. So one pats the other. One the other tenderly embraces: “Amigo, amigo”—“Que tal?”—“Que es de tu vida, que me cuentas?” But despite that tenderness, cordiality, now and then the Discourse subsides or falls off for one speaks and the other in distraction, in some Forgetfulness now has stopped listening, now is inspecting his Sock. So they are saying: “Is that Revista out yet?”—“I was paid 50 Pesos for an article”—“How are you, how are you! What news?”—“How much was that Land?”—“I acquired Socks for myself.”

  Then all together hands raised up and their heads clasping cried aloud: “Oh, what do we Say? Oh, why can we not say our Say?! Oh, why do we not Respect and Honour each other?! Oh, why so Shallow, so Shallow?!” So one to the other Flits, one bestows Honour on the other, one to the other “Maestro, maestro” and “Gran Escritor” and “Que Obra” and “Que Gloria” but what, since it falls off anon and again in distraction they are inspecting Socks.

  “Hold,” said the Counsellor, “Hold … We will shew them yet!” Yet we stand. To me whispered the Counsellor, pale and sweaty: “Shew something, chitsh.t, to those chitsh.ts else we will be shamed!” Say I to him: “You chitsh.t, what am I to shew them?” And behind me My Own stand and seeing that no one takes any notice of me perchance think me a chitsh.t, angry as Sin, so angry they would drown me in a spoon of water! To the Devil, to the Devil, to the Devil! The Devil! Perchance something Amiss! But I see that new people are coming in, and not just any people for anon Bows, Honours wafted towards them.

  So first entered a lady in an ermine Cape, with Ostrich, Peacock Plumes, and with a large Purse; beside her some Lickspittles and after the Lickspittles some Scribes, next some Scrib
blers and some Jesters who beat the Drums. Likewise amongst them a wight Clad in Black, and seemingly distinguished for when he entered voices could be heard: “Gran escritor, maestro”—“Maestro, maestro” … and out of this admiration they might have fallen on their Knees, save they were eating petits fours. Anon then a circle of listeners unfurled and he in the center began to make his mighty Celebration.

  That man (and haply so strange a man for the first time in my life had I seen) was uncommonly pampered and, what is more, was still Pampering himself. In a Greatcoat, behind large Black glasses as if behind a fence from the whole World shut off, around his neck a silk scarf with demi-pearl grey dots on’t, on his hands Demi-gloves of black cambric, on his head a hat, demi-brimmed, black. So muffled and apart, now and then he took a sip from a narrow flask, or with a Kerchief of black cambric mopped himself and fanned. In pockets Papers aplenty, scripts the which he ceaselessly mislaid, and under arm Books. Of intelligence enormously subtle the which he in himself all the time ensubtled, distilled, in every utterance of his so intelligently intelligent he was that the Women’s and Men’s delighted clucks arose (even though they inspect Socks, ties). That voice of his he quietened constantly but, the Quieter the louder indeed, as others, having quietened themselves, all the more intently did listen (though they Listen not); and so he in the Black Hat seemed to lead his brood into the Eternal Quietude. Looking into his books, notes, mislaying them, Wallowing, weltering in them, with rare quotations he sprinkled his thought and capered with it to and for Himself, as in a solitary. And so whimsically coddling himself in Paper and Thought, all the more intelligently intelligent he was, and that intelligence of his, multiplied by itself and a-straddled on itself, was becoming so Intelligent that Jesus Maria!

  And here Pyckal and the Baron into my ear: “Yoicks, yoicks!” Likewise the Counsellor from the other side: “Yoicks, yoicks, sick him, yoicks!” Say I: “I am not a dog.” Whispered the Counsellor: “Sick him, else Shame for he is their most Famous Author and it cannot be that they Celebrate him when the Great Polish Author, Genius is in the room! Bite him, you chitsh.t, you genius, bite him for if not, we will bite you!” … Now behind me stand all my Brood … I perceived that there is no other Remedy but that I must bite him else my Countrymen will give me no peace; and if I were to bite that Bison, on this ground a Lion I would remain. But how to bite if the beast as if from a book is Marzipanning, marzipanning so that it sickeneth, and all the more Intelligently Intelligent he is, subtly Subtle …

  Whereupon I commented to my neighbour, and quite loudly so that he there would hear: “I don’t like Butter too Buttery, Noodles too Noodly, Millet too Millety and Barley too Barley!”

  This comment of mine, in the general quietude as a Trumpet sounded and to me the general attention turned; and that Rabbi his celebration interrupted, and having set his glasses at me, at me with them from his dark room he peered; whereupon quietly accosted his Neighbour: “Who might that be?” Says the neighbour: “A Foreign Author.” Whereupon he became a bit discountenanced and asked whether English, French, or perchance Dutch; but the Neighbour says to him: “A Pole.” “A Pole!” he exclaimed, “A Pole! A Pole!” … and thereupon, having adjusted his Hat, mightily grimaced with his leg, and then amongst his notes, Papers rummages and says, yet only to His Own, not to me:

  “Here they say that butter is buttery … The thought interesting indeed … an interesting Thought … Pity, not quite new for Sartorius already said it in his Bucolics.”

  They commenced clucking, his answer savouring as if ‘twere the finest Marzipan. Yet, clucking, they as if their own clucking contemn, and for this reason that Clucking of theirs falls off. When he to His Own had turned, I in anger to My Own turned and say: “What the devil do I need to know what Sartorius said if I Say?!”

  Ergo my own applauded me instantly: “Hail, hail, our Master! He bit him back smartly! Long live Genius Gombrowicz!” Now they applaud, but as if contemning that Applause of theirs … so anon it Fell off. Then that one in books, papers fumbled, mightily hashed his leg about, and still only to His Own speaking: “Here they say: What do I care for Sartorius if I Say. And this is not a bad Thought, indeed it could be served with Raisin sauce, but the trouble is that Madame de Lespinasse said something like it in one of her Letters.”

  Again they cluck, savour, though that Clucking, Savouring of theirs they contemn … and in Distraction there is a falling off. Thereupon I turn to My Own so as to answer him Soundly and Bite so that he would not wish to bark again! And here I see: My Own red as Flame; viz. Red as a beetroot the Counsellor, red Pyckal along with the Baron, and Cieciszowski up to his ears in a deep Blush just stands! Oh God, what’s that, why were they so suddenly aflame? Indeed, a moment ago they were Admiring, wherefore such a metamorphosis … But naught, they stand, Reddening … I as if whacked in the Chops for that Countrymen’s Blush the which Emblushed me so that suddenly before people all red I have become as if in just a Shirt! The Devil take it! The Devil! Reddened now even my Ears!

  Ergo that Mortification of mine that I as a chitsh.t, Red, as if barefoot, cap in hand, at a fence standing; and the worst is that not for the reason of any Shame of mine but a blush of Not Mine though My Own. In fear, then, that through these chitsh.ts of mine who think me a chitsh.t, I’ll shew myself a chitsh.t to those other chitsh.ts and, wanting to crush that Chitsh.t, I shouted: “Sh.t! Sh.t! Sh.t!”

  He replied: “Ergo ’tis not a bad Thought and good with Mushrooms, just fry it a bit and baste with Cream; but alas, it has already been said by Cambronne…” And, in his greatcoat enclosing himself, he made grimaces with his leg.

  I was left with no words for I had lost my tongue! And the scoundrel, he had made me mute so that I had no Words as what is mine is not Mine, apparently Stolen!

  So stand I in front of all those people and there My Own from behind give me cuffs, tug at me, drag me away, and perchance Red, Red they are … Yet here before me those other ones lavish respect on their freak, though at the same time, as if neglecting their respect, they are inspecting socks, shirts, pins. Now heedless of everything, leaving everything, from my disgrace, shame escaping, towards the door through the whole salon I began to go walking, and I Walk Off! I walk off, as the Devil with it all and the Devil, the Devil, all gone to the Devil! Fleeing, walking out I am! But, having walked almost to the door in my open escape, the Devil, the Devil, I think, why the Devil am I fleeing! Why escape? I turned back and return. Through the whole salon I go and all give way to me! The Devil! The Devil! The Devil with it… Satan!

  So on I go, and I would crack heads, oh I would! But having walked to the wall, I turn again and again back to the door I started for methinks, better not to crack. Yet when I had walked almost to the door, again I turned (for this Walking of mine is already transforming into just a walk across the Salon), and again through the salon I go … Now in common amazement, mouths agape, they stare and perchance think me a Halfwit, but the Devil, the Devil, I care not for aught and on I Walk as if I were alone here, and here no one else! And more and more my walk strengthens, becomes Mightier … and so the Devil, the Devil, I Walk on and Walk forth and Walk, and so am Walking, Walking and Walking and Walking …

  And so on I Walk! They throw glances because perchance no one has ever Walked in such a way at a Reception… ergo, there by the walls as squirrels they crouched; this one or that crept under Upholstery, or guarded himself with a piece of Furniture … and now on I Walk, Walk, and not just Walk but Walking the Devil of a Walk so that haply I’ll Crack all … oh, Jesus Maria! So now My Own not mine, tail between legs, pack up their drums; they look and I Walk, Walk still, Walk on, whereupon that Walk of mine drums as on a bridge. The Devil, the Devil, and I know not what to do with this Walking of mine, for such a Walk, such a Walk, and I as if uphill Walk, am Walking, and hard, hard, uphill, uphill, oh what a Walk! Oh, what am I doing? Oh, now haply as a Madman I Walk and Walk and Walk, but they will think me a Lunatick … yet I Walk, Walk … and the Devi
l, the Devil, Walk, Walk …

  And now I look and there by the Fireplace someone likewise goes walking, and Walks and Walks. And he so Walks and Walks that when I Walk he likewise Walks. So I from wall to wall and he there from Fireplace to Window … and when I walk, he Walks too … The Devil take me: why has he stuck thus? What would he? Perchance he is Mocking? … Why does he Walk as I do? Yet I could not stop Walking.

  Now out of their very fear, they would belike him and me by the pates—out! … Although in fear and in Fury, that fury and fear of theirs they slight, ergo it Falls off … and although one became pale, the other frowned, the third even his Fist shewed, at the same time petits fours and buns with ham they eat and one to the other: “Is that revista out yet?”—“And I acquired some Tiles for myself… “—“I am publishing a new volume of Poetry” … Ergo, they Talk thus, Talk, although they are Furious and perchance Afraid, but I see too that they Scoff, and though there one with a bun, the other perchance with a glass, and behind stools, under stools, Angry they are, Talking they are, Afraid They Are, but likewise perchance Scoffing they are … and I Walk, Walk, and he likewise there Walks, is Walking and the Devil, the Devil! …