“Affix a Spur to his boot.”
Whereupon a Spur to my right boot was affixed, and he says:
“Now to our Order of the Chevaliers of the Spur you belong and my Commands you must obey and likewise look to it that the others obey my commands as they should. Do not attempt an escape or any betrayal as with a Spur they will prod you, and if you notice the faintest wish to Betray, to Escape, in any of your Comrades, into him a Spur you must shove. And if you neglect doing this, into you they will shove it. And if the one who is to give you a Spur neglects doing this, another one is to give him a Spur. Keep an eye on yourself then, and on those others keep an eye, and mind the slightest Movement if you would not suffer the Point Painful, oh Awful, oh Hellish Point that, Devilish!” And the sweat from his pale forehead having wiped, he says more softly: “Ease the Sinew, then I will remove.”
But ’tis hard to ease since first the Fear had to Release me. And when I after long Labours some Easing for my sinews had beseeched of my Fear, with the slightest movement of the Point again my sinews stiffened and a Flickering in the eyes, my skull splitting, Exploding, oh, perchance the Earth and the Sky are bursting! Then the spur he ripped out with an awful Cry, Yowling, Kicking and such Pain caused that again into a long swoon I did fall. When I awoke the Accomptant was not present and only Pyckal, Ciumkala, the Baron sit and at each other gaze. It could not set in my mind that Friends were imprisoning me, and the door was not even locked: just arise and depart. Howbeit, out of the fear that again a Spur I might suffer, with no movement, with no word I was sitting. They too are sitting, till in the end moved slightly the Baron, and straightway likewise Ciumkala a Spur moved; but said the Baron: “I beg your leave so that I can go to the Saucepans, make a meal, as today is my turn.” Whereupon the leave was granted him and to the Saucepans he went, but Pyckal right next to him with a Spur; and Pyckal was watched by Ciumkala, who likewise from me took not his eyes. Ergo, again the heavy stiffness came on, yet eased a bit after the food was cooked, and moaned Ciumkala: “Ah God, God, God …”
Ergo, I realized that there is no Hope.
I shall not bother my gracious Reader with a detailed description of my dolours in the snare of that Spur suffered. Since a Snare it was, into which we as Rats and as Conies fell and all ’cause of the Accomptant. And every now and then when the Spur eased us a little, from the Baron’s or Ciumkala’s fragmentary disclosures, from Pyckal’s hollow moans I was coming to know the truth.
Indeed it all began with this: viz. that after the Duel, when I with Tomasz to Gonzalo’s estancia betook myself, the Baron through Ciumkala challenged Pyckal to a duel—for Pyckal had whacked him on the head. Through Ciumkala, I say, this challenge was, for when the Baron and Pyckal were together coming back from the duel on their stallions, Ciumkala lumbered out of a ditch (he had waited in the ditch for them) and since exceeding angry (he had thought that they deliberately from being a witness to Gonzalo had excluded him in order to thwart his Purposes and him from Profits bar); ergo, out of the ditch he lumbered and says: “Stallions, stallions but Mares would befit you better since you are Mares perchance; for a Mare you were witnesses so Mares …” He lumbered up so that the Stallions began to frisk and jump about, and the Baron would a boot give him between the eyes; yet, instead of giving it to him, Pyckal he kicked in the thigh, for Ciumkala sat on the ground. Sits then Ciumkala and there Pyckal the Baron on the ear: “You something or other, why are you kicking me?!” Says the Baron: “And wherefore did you me on the head?” Says Ciumkala from the ground: “Oh, but the Mares are biting each other, so it will rain! …” Here the stallions jump about, frisk. Then the Baron Pyckal on the ear! So the blood surges and one the other to a Duel calls out (and Ciumkala “Mares” calls out), and now all the more for that new duel they burn ’cause the shame of that popping with the Puto they would fain rub out. Ergo, when so calling out, at the Office they arrived, the Baron asking the Accomptant in his name to call out Pyckal now pro forma with sabres or pistols. But says the Accomptant: “Why am I to call out since you fear a Bullet as ’tis clear, obvious what people say that that Duel was with no Bullet, ergo haply likewise this Duel with no bullet you would have … oh, you Stallions, stallions, yet from an empty Pistol and with Powder you fire …” And Ciumkala: “Mares, mares …” Whereupon the Baron with Pyckal at them, would beat them, but finally to the Manège they went for vodka. There the Baron and Pyckal shout, make racket, ready with Claws, and even with Flails or Forks, and for death itself, to the last blood … and they rage, at each other’s throats they fly and at the Accomptant’s, amongst themselves poke speech at each other, now the Mill, now the Dyke, and all old rancours, Recollections, all wrongs from the beginning of time suffered as alive before their eyes appear. Then says the Accomptant: “Spurs I have, the which have a point sharply twisted, so if you would with these Flails beat each other, haply better with these Spurs … yet these are Spurs not for Mares but perchance only for Stallions! …” And Ciumkala: “Mares, mares! …” “Stallion!” they cry, and ask to have these spurs affixed and will anon stab each other to death with them! Whereupon the Baron thrust his spur into Pyckal, Pyckal his into the Baron, and thus in a Snare they got so that they could not even move. The Accomptant whitened as a wall, his eyes bulged and, having affixed his own spur, having pounced on them, Pierced them thus, Trampled thus, Gored mercilessly so that as Dogs they bayed with Frothing, and forth to the heavens a howl from that Cruel place did issue. Then began that Passion, Golgotha; that Order, Snare Satanic, Diabolic.
The reason the Accomptant to such a horrible Snare had turned, from his own whitened lips I came to know, when for the night he returned to the cellar. It did not come easily to him to speak about it for of himself he was the most terrified; but this he confessed that when the Baron and Pyckal called each other out, a small Insect happened under his foot, the which he squashed. The squashing of that Insect a cherished Rabbit recalled to him, the which he in his childhood tried to strangle since a Saint he wished to be and for Martyrdom was preparing himself, but the strength he had not in him. Thereupon a Calf he recalled, and as alive, the which he being a boy stabbed to Toughen himself and overcome the trembling which the sight of spilt blood caused. Thereupon a Horse, a Grey, he recalled, the which he was indeed with a spur a-killing in his student years, to overcome Fear and likewise to become a hero and the whole world to save. That Grey to him a Dappled Cow recalled, the which A-killing, A-killing he was till he did Kill for the toughening of the soul (as he liked it exceeding much and even with many a tear over its corpse did sob). Then a fierce Lion he recalled, the which he set alight in a cage, and this to overcome his weakness and for Great Deeds prepare himself. So when this Huge Lion from so many years ago he has recalled, and here an empty jangle betwixt the Baron and Pyckal he has seen, he resolves to give them a Spur: viz. and this so that he himself might, through their roaring, as a Lion roar.
Albeit—how did that Hooked Spur come to be? The Accomptant told me that when War surged and the Clap of Firing, Thunder of canons, and Moaning and Crying and Killing, Cracking, his own gentleness and likewise the Weakness, Smallness of all compatriots became so loathsome to him that he wished to found an Order of Anguish and Suffering, Agony and Awe, viz. that these flames might sear redemptively! “Oh, Potency, Potency, Potency! Oh, Potency we need, Overpowering potency! Oh … this is why I (says) twisted the points of those Spurs; so they might in a painful Snare snatch and not Slacken, so a Prepotent, most Dread Cohort of Cavalry to create the which might Strike, Smash, Smite! And thus in this Order, Dread, Awesome, with those Compatriots of mine I wish to be so as myself to terrify … so as myself to violate … so as myself from an Accomptant into a Potentate translate … Oh, Potentate, Potentate, Potency, Potency! May nature tremble! May the enemy take fright! Oh, to violate Nature, violate self, violate Fate, God Himself violate that all this might be changed! Since no one will dread our Gentleness, Dread we must be! Ergo, in that Snare you yourselves I have caught, and
likewise myself have caught, do torment, and will not cease tormenting as cease I cannot… since if I were to ease, you would Flay me … Therefore no Easing! No Easing! …” This he into my ear whispers, and Pale, shakes, trembles, jaws a-quiver, fingers twitch, voice now shrill now exceeding deep.
Thereupon say I to him: “Ah, Pan Grzegorz, what is there here for you? Indeed, it will bring no Good to you, and you tremble, all in a sweat.” Whispered he: “Be silent, be silent! I tremble for I am weak. But I will be Potent when the Weakness, the Smallness within me I have suppressed and made to Fear. And attempt not a betrayal, since the Spur!”
And moves his fingers as has been his wont since bygone times.
Ergo Days as Night dark, Nights as days sleepless in that cellar. There naught but Spur and Spur, and so for hours, days, nights we sit and sit and at each other look, and our every Movement, every motion Hard, tougher has become for us in mutual Possession Possessed. Where are the Baron’s grace, his whims, his mien? Where is Pyckal’s boisterousness? Where is Ciumkala’s eternal licking? As worms in this cellar Amongst ourselves we muck, one with the other there muddle; and when after the Stiffening the Easing, after the Easing again the Stiffening and a Moan from that one who in the snare of the Spur was caught. Even when a need there was to do something, attend to something, water to heat, saucepans to cleanse, always in Twos this was done, and very Slowly, carefully so as not, God forbid, a sudden jab of a spur to bring on. And so from morn till eve we Sit, Sit and keep Silence, speak little, and as if we were Enemies to each other, although everything Jointly we settle. And only when at night sleep comes (although there always one with another watched), only then, I say, does our Confabulation begin, and rattles Pyckal, wheezes and hums the Baron, sighs, mumbles, and whimpers Ciumkala, and the Accomptant under the nose or through the nose mutters. Listening then to those ancient sounds, I perceived the whole bottomlessness of that Imprisonment of mine—since perchance ’tis not of Today, not of Yesterday, perchance of the day Before yesterday; and how to strive Today against this which is perchance in primeval Time going on … Heigh, Dark Bushments, Dark, Ancient! Heigh, Woods Aged! Heigh, old Granary, Old Barn, Dyke and also Mill on the water … In sleep then they chatter, and one with another squabbles, this one at that one Huffs, that one grumbles, that one Prattles something, Prattles, Wiseacres, Wiseacres, till one day arrived the Lady clerk Panna Zofia, by the Accomptant in the Snare snatched, and the same day towards evening Kasper was lured and caught. Evermore then sonorous, raucous nightly Natterings and there one squirms, Wriggles, another “Chuli, buli” whispers, or “klumka, klumka,” and from that Speech my hair stood on end and my heart grew faint as if I in the circles of Hell abided.
And in the course of a few days nigh all Clerklets to the cellar were lured till there was not a naked spot on the ground that one could lie on … In this press the old returns, and now as if not past but Pre-Past… Ergo Pyckal the broken fingernail shewed to the Baron, to Ciumkala, and “Józef, Józef, do not cry,” the Cashier says, and the Bookkeeper cries! Or the Crucians again suddenly surfaced, then a Bun, long ago bitten at… and again a jab of Spur, again Pain, Torment! And ’twas well-nigh beyond Belief, nigh beyond the brain, and mainly by day: as the cellar’s door only with a hook latched, so just Get up, take two steps, get out into the sun, into the open, oh God, God, to what end are we sitting here? Oh God, God, but we all would fain get out … and there the Open … Beyond the brain! The mind abhors.
Ergo one day I thought to myself how is’t, indeed it cannot be, indeed we all here would fain get out, and I will Get out, will Get out, oh, am Getting Out, Getting Out … Whereupon I rose, and was going towards the out-let; and they not believing their eyes my Getting Out observe and as if Hope has entered into them … petrified … Then moved Pyckal; the Baron cried out, a Spur into him thrust; Pyckal, to the ground with a grunt having fallen, would peck me, but missed; whereupon Panna Zofia her blade into me pushed; and so we all on the Ground in Convulsions, and with Frothing!! But what for this, oh, wherefore this, why this, to what purpose, and wherefore, what for, and why?
Ergo Emptiness! Empty everything as an empty Bottle, as a Stalk, as a Barrel, as a shell. Since, although dready that Passion of ours, yet Empty, Empty, and Empty the Dread, empty the Pain and now even the Accomptant himself empty as an Empty Vessel. And this is why there is no end to our Passion and we here even a Thousand years could sit, ourselves not knowing what for, wherefore. Never then will I out of this empty Coffin come? Eternally perishing will I be amongst these People in that pre-pre-past of theirs engulfed? Never out into the sun, into Freedom will I get? Eternally Underground is my life to be?
Son, Son, Son! To the son I would hasten, escape. In the Son there is a respite, a soothing for me! How I did sigh in that Underground for his rosy, fresh cheeks, for eyes lively, shining, for fair locks, and how I would rest, respite in that Grove and by that River of his. Here, amidst monsters, and in the whole of God’s world, oh, perchance the Devil’s, I had no other Rock, no other spring in that Emptiness, in that Drought of mine save that Son, that Son with sap aplenty. In this Missing the Son, in this Longing for the Son I a Resolve made, the which daring and only by despair could have been inspired, and this to the Accomptant I say: “’Tis good, but too little, too little! Not enough here of the Passion, of the Dread! Much more of the Passion, Dread, Pain is needed. And for what sit we as rats in the Cellar when a Deed is needed! Some deed we are to do so that we are filled with Awe and Potency!”
Thus I counselled. Yet if that Counsel of mine at the diminishing of the Pain or the Awe had been directed, they would me as a traitor with a Spur have gored. But since the Counsel indeed greater Dread requires and for a Deed calls, no one dares to resist it, and chiefly the Accomptant himself (although Pales, trembles, in a sweat). I cry: “You poltroons! A deed I demand, a dready Deed, and one most Dready!” They look at me, gaze; they know that I this perchance out of Insincerity say, that some deceit in this; but likewise they know that if any of them against that Counsel of mine rose, straightway a spur would be given him (since apparently he fears the Dread). And the Accomptant, seeing the dread of that Counsel, likewise cannot reject it, as his own Being Dread he could lose.
Heads together. Speaks one: “The minister to kill.” Another speaks: “Not enough to kill; needs must excruciate!” The third says: “Not enough the Minister to excruciate, must needs his wife, Children kill!” Says Zofia: “Not enough the Children to kill; better to Blind.” And within the emptiness of this Counselling a Deed evermore dready arises, and the Accomptant, with hair a-bristle, with pale and pearly forehead, a-hearing all the Voices was, and down them as down a ladder to Hell descending. But speak I: “Not enough of this, not enough, Pan Henryk and Pan Konstanty, not enough, Pan Grzegorz! What of it that we the minister or his wife would kill. Indeed, today is not the first time Ministers have been killed, and this is an ordinary deed and not dready enough. Such a Deed is needed for us the which would no Cause, occasion or any reason have, and just the naked Dread itself, awe would serve. We had better then Tomasz’s Son, Ignac, kill since death to that youth for no cause given will be a more awesome death than any other. And such a death will give you, Grzegorz, so much Terror that Nature, Fate, the whole world will piss in their breeches unto you as unto a Potentate!” Thereupon they cried: “Kill, kill! …” and with spurs they hack, howl. The Accomptant speaks Palely, empalingly: “The Devil, the Devil, I will not let you out of here, you shall not get out.”
Heads together. Speák I: “Get out we must, as here naught more dread we will do; and indeed ’tis not this Cellar that imprisons us but the Spur. If then in a heap we get out, and with Spurs on boots, one will not sneak away from another … no fear! But first I with Pan Grzegorz to Gonzalo will go, where Ignac together with his father stays, and there we the whole Murder will think out. For to kill is not easy and everything well thought out must be. And likewise bespurred on horses we will ride and I trust that Grzegorz would with
a prick scorch me if I were to attempt an escape or a Betrayal.” Ergo they are Counselling, consulting and my Counsel scrutinizing and the Accomptant his nose upturns—somewhat not to his taste that venture of mine. But I cried: “Whoever is a Poltroon, Weak, whoever fears or seeks dodges, into that one Courage with a prick spur!” And cried, Yelped the Accomptant: “I cannot not accept the Counsel, for ’tis Diabolical!”
On two horses then, Dun, the which from the Manège have been given us, to Gonzalo’s estancia over fields we speed; and the Accomptant’s galloping next to my galloping resounds! The Accomptant speeds on! Alongside of him I speed on. Boundless plains! Farness unmeasured, the which a Forehead cools and perchance with a Rifle after Birds, hares, or somewhere in a burrow to repose, to sleep … but with us the Spur. And with us that Deed of ours, the which we needs must do. And now I know not whether as a Killer, a Slayer, to the son I speed or as to a Spring parched lips to refresh… and the thud of the Empty Galloping, the thud of our Emptiness in these plains of the Pampas and empty vastnesses as a Bell, as a Drum resounds! God, God, how is it that I as a Killer am riding, speeding, how is it that I shall a Killer be unto that son of mine! And when we at a big chestnut tree arrived, into the Accomptant’s horse a spur I thrust from the which a Grunt, a Jump, the spur breaks, the horse with his head between his legs Bolts, and that Killer, my Slayer, by his own horse borne away, in the farthest mists of the Plain has vanished.
Alone in these meadows I was. Oh, how Empty, Quiet, ah, an Insect, a bird perched on a branch … But the Son, the Son, to the Son, to the Son! Into the galloping then, and the Son, to the Son, the Son, to the Son, horse’s hooves against the ground thud! And now before me the Baobabs of Gonzalo’s estancia, now a Green Clump of trees, shrubs springs forth … but what Thud with the Thud of my horse mixes? Perchance pegs are being pounded somewhere, perchance Linen is being laundered … for whilst here horse’s hooves boom, boom; there Boom and Bam and Boom, and whilst my Horse boom-boom, boom-boom, there Bam-boom and Boom and Bam behind the trees resound! Lo, Palant they were playing! And, my horse having dismounted, I from behind the trees run, and there Gonzalo with Ignac palant plays and Horatio aside on Pickets accompanies Ignacy: viz. when Ignacy Boom at a ball, then Horatio Bam on a picket, and Boom-bam they slam! Tomasz about the Orchard walked, plums ate …
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