Cosmos

by Witold Gombrowicz

  “Ti, ri, ri.”

  I was mum. I sat.

  “Ti, ri, ri.”

  Again silence, the meadow, azure, the sun already lower, shadows spreading.

  But this time with all his might, as forceful as a battle cry. And suddenly it fell:

  “Berg!”

  Loud and clear . . . so that I wouldn’t be able not to ask what it meant.

  “What?”

  “Berg!”

  “What, berg?”

  “Berg!”

  “Ah yes, you were saying earlier that two Jews . . . a Jewish joke.”

  “Not a joke at all! Berg! Berging with a berg into a berg, mind you—bemberging with a berg. . . Ti, ri, ri,”he added slyly.

  He fluttered his hands and even his legs—as if dancing inside himself—triumphantly. Almost inaudibly and from deep within he repeated mechanically, in a hollow tone: berg . . . berg. He fell silent. He waited.

  “All right. I’m going for a walk . . . ”

  “Sit down, sir, why walk in the sun. It’s more pleasant in the shade. It’s pleasant. Such small pleasures—they are the best. Tasty. They taste well.”

  “I’ve noticed you like your little pleasures.”

  “How’s that? What? I beg your pardon?”

  He bubbled with a kind of internal laughter: “On my word of honor, true as blue, you’re thinking about those little games of mine on the tablecloth, under the eyes of my better half? Discretely, all correct, so that there would be no scandals? The main thing is, she doesn’t know . . . ”

  “What?”

  “That it’s the berg. This berging with my bemberg with all the bembergality of this bemberg of mine!”

  “OK, fine . . . You rest, I’m going for a walk . . . ”

  “Where are you going in such a hurry? Hold on for one tiny little minute, maybe I’ll tell you . . . ”

  “What?”

  “That which interests you. What you are curious about . . . ”

  “You’re a pig. A scumbag.”

  Silence. Trees. Shadow. A small meadow. Silence. I said this quietly—what harm? In the worst case he’ll feel offended and turn me out. So what, this will end, break off, I’ll move to another pension, or I’ll return to Warsaw to irritate my father and bring my mother to a state of despair with my unbearable person . . . Eh, he won’t be offended . . . “You’re a dirty pig,” I said, laying it on. The little meadow. Silence. I was intent on just one thing: that he not go crazy on me. Because my concern was that if he were a maniac, mente captus, in that case he would simply lose all importance, and he and all his possible deeds and all his confessions, and my story as well, would become something founded on the indiscriminate folly of a poor idiot and—trivial. Yet by thrusting him into swinishness . . . oh, there I could make use of him, there he could somehow connect himself with Venomie, with the priest, with that cat of mine, with Katasia . . . there he could be useful to me as one more brick in this house of mine, laboriously built at the outer limits.

  “Why are you jumping on me?”he asked casually.

  “I’m not.”

  The tranquility of nature.

  Anyway, if I had insulted him, it was an insult out there, in the distance . . . almost through a telescope.

  “May I ask: by what right?”

  “Because you, sir, are a voluptuary.”

  “Enough! Enough! With your permission, I beg you, if you please, if it pleases the high court, I, Leon Wojtys, an exemplary father of a family, never convicted, working myself to the bone all my life, earning a living, day-in-day-out, except on Sundays, from home to the bankie, from the bankie home, now retired, but nonetheless exemplary, I rise at six fifteen, go to sleep at eleven thirty (unless there is a little game of bridge with my better half ’s permission), my dear sir, for thirty-seven years of conjugal life I haven’t been, not even once . . . hm, hm . . . to my better half, with any other. I haven’t been unfaithful. Not even once. Thirty-seven. Not even once! So there! I am a good husband, tender, tolerant, polite, cheerful, the best father, tenderly loving, pleasant to people, eager, kind, helpful, tell me, if you please sir, what is it in my life that entitles you to say that I, on the side, something or other, taking chances, as if I’d been acting altogether illicitly, drunkenness, cabaret-life, orgy, debauchery, roguery, and whoring with various hussies, perhaps bacchanalia by Chinese lanterns with odalisques, but you can see for yourself, I sit quietly, I chat, and—”he triumphantly shouted into my face, “I’m correct and tutti frutti!”

  Tutti frutti!What a scoundrel!

  “You, sir, are a masturbator.”

  “What’s that? I beg your pardon? How am I to understand this?”

  “Go to your own for whatever turns you on!”

  “What do you mean?”

  I moved my face close to his face and said:

  “Berg!”

  It worked. First he rocked back and forth in surprise that this word was coming to him from without. Surprised, even annoyed, he snapped back:

  “What do you know?”

  But then he immediately shook with inner laughter, he seemed to swell with laughter: “Ha, ha, ha, true, you’re right, berging with a berg doubly, triply, with a particular system of on-the-quiet-berg, discrete-berg at every hour of the day and night, and most eagerly at the family dinner table, bemberging a little under the eyes of my little wifie and my little daughter! Berg! Berg! You, my good sir, have a sharp eye! However, my dear sir . . . ”

  He looked grave, pondered, then suddenly remembered something thing, he reached into his pocket and held out to me on his palm: a packet of sugar, two or three hard candies—a tine broken from a fork—two indecent photos—a cigarette lighter.

  Trifles! . . . Trifles like those clods of dirt, arrows, sticks, sparrows! I was instantly certain that he was the one!

  “What’s this?”

  “This? Candybergs and penalbergs in the citation of the Highest Tribunal. Penalbergs of the District Penal Department and candy-bergs of the Delicatessen-Caresses Department. Punishment and reward.”

  “Who are you punishing and who are you rewarding?”

  “Who?”

  He sat stiffly, his arm extended and looked at his hand “for himself”—like the priest who was fumbling with his fingers “for himself,” like Venomie who loved “for herself ”. . . and . . . just as I had spoiled everything “for myself ”. . .My anxiety that he would turn out to be a madman vanished, I began to see that we were both working on something—and strenuously. Yes, it was hard work, work at a distance, I wiped “for myself” my brow that was actually dry.

  The heat, but not so very severe . . .

  He wet his finger with saliva and smeared it laboriously across his hand, then watched his fingernail thoughtfully.

  “You’re scraping a turnip just for yourself,”* I remarked.

  He laughed with glee, loudly, as if in every direction, he almost danced in his seat: “Oh, yes, oh yes, on my word of honor, I’m scraping it just for myself!”

  “So you hanged the sparrow?”

  “What? Hanged what? The sparrow? No. Nonsense!”

  “Who then?”

  “How should I know?”

  The conversation broke off, I didn’t know if I should rekindle it, here, in this stilled landscape. I began to scrape the dried dirt off my pants. We sat on a log like two councilmen, but it wasn’t clear what the council was about. I said again: “Berg . . .”but more softly, more calmly, and my intuition did not mislead me, he looked at me with respect, brushed something off, mumbled:

  “Berg, berg, I see you are quite a bembergman!”

  He then asked me matter-of-factly:

  “Do you bemberg?”

  And he laughed: “My dear fellow! Perchance you, my dearie, know why I have let you in on the bemberg? What is my dear fellow pondering in that little head of his? That little Leo Wojtys is such a simpleton as to let anybody in on the bergum-bergum? You can’t be serious! I let you in on it because . . .
?”

  “Because of what?”

  “You are curiosity incarnate! But yes, I’ll tell you.”

  He caught me lightly by the ear—he blew into my ear.

  “I’ll tell you! And why shouldn’t I tell you! Because you are berg berg berging yourself into the berg with that daughter of mine, that Miss Wojtys Helena-Lena, sired by me, a Wojtys! With a berg. On the quiet. Do you think I can’t see? You scamp!”

  “What?”

  “Scoundrel!”

  “What do you want?”

  “Cool on top but ready to pop! You, sir, are berging my daughter for yourself! With an on-the-sly-berg, with a lovey-doveyberg, and you, my dearie sir, would like to bemberg yourself right under her skirt and straight into her marriage as the lovieberg number one! Ti-ri-ri! Ti-ri-ri!”

  The bark of a tree, knots, veins, so he knew, in any case he guessed . . . so this secret of mine was not a secret . . . but what did he know? How was I to talk to him! Directly, or . . . covertly?

  “Berg,” I said.

  He looked at me with respect. A swarm of little white butterflies, something like a billowing sphere, flew over the meadow and disappeared beyond the larches by a brook (there was a brook).

  “Have you berged? Ha, you’re no fool! I also berg. We’ll bemberg together! With the assurance, eh, that you, comrade, won’t breathe a word, mum’s the word, because if you, siree, blabo to my beloved wifie for example, to my cultiflora, it will mean get out, out of my house, head first, for the lust of conquering the marital bed of this beloved daughter of mine! Catch my meaning. That’s why, because you are regarded as a man worthy of confidence, one determines, according to the Decree b . . . b . . . number 12. 137, to admit you to today’s celebration of my bemberging, most strictly secret, to my berg-festivity together with the flower and the perfume. In other words: do you think, my good fellow, that I dragged you all here merely to admire the scenery?”

  “Then why?”

  “To celebrate.”

  “To celebrate what?”

  “An anniversary.”

  “Of what?”

  He looked at me and said piously, with a strange solicitude: “Of what? Of the greatest fun of my life. Twenty-seven years ago.”

  Again he looked at me, and it was the mystical gaze of a holy man, even a martyr. He added.

  “With a kitchen maid.”

  “With what kitchen maid?”

  “With the one who was here at the time. My good sir! Once in my life I got lucky, and how! I carry this delight of mine within myself like the holiest sacrament. Once in my life!”

  He fell silent, while I surveyed the surrounding mountains, mountains and mountains, cliffs and cliffs, forest and forest, trees and trees. He wet his finger with saliva, spread it across his hand, watched it. Then he began slowly, starkly, laboriously: “You should know that my early life was nothing special. We lived in a small town, in Sokołowo, my father was the manager of the cooperative, one has to be careful, you see, people know about everyone immediately, so you see, one lives in a small town as if in front of a window, every step, every movement, every glance and you’re on the carpet, good God, I was brought up in plain sight, besides, I admit, I was not known for courage, ha, ha, well, shy, quiet . . . I don’t know . . . of course I would seize this and that, as chance presented itself, I did as well as I could, but what of it. Never enough. Always in plain sight. And then, you see, well, as soon as I joined the bank I got married, and, I don’t know, a little bit, yes, but not much, this and that, we usually lived in small towns, it’s like living in front of a window, everything in full view, and, I’d say, there was even more watching now because, in a marriage, you know, each one watches the other from morning ’til night, from night ’til morning, and you can imagine how it was under my wife’s keen eye, then my child’s, ah, but then, in the bank they’re watching too, at the office I devised the pleasure of deepening a groove in my desk with my fingernail, the division chief comes in, what the devil are you doing with your fingernail, well, too bad, but in any case and as a consequence, you understand, I had to resort to small pleasures, on the side, nearly invisible, one time, young man, when we lived in Drohobycz, a truly sumptuous actress came to town for a guest performance, a lioness no less, and I accidentally touched her little hand on the bus, so, young man, frenzy, madness, wild excitement, do it again, but it’s out of the question, impossible, ’til finally, in my bitterness, I came to my senses, thinking, why should you look for a strange hand, you have two of your own and, would you believe it, with some training one can become such an expert that one hand can feel the other, under the table for instance, no one sees it, and even if they do, so what, one can touch oneself not only with hands, but also with thighs, one can touch the ear with one’s finger, because, as it turns out, you see, if your purpose is pleasure, you can find rapture in your own body if you must, not a whole lot I’ll admit, but half a loaf is better than none, of course I’d rather make it with some odalisque-houri . . . but if there is none . . .

  He rose, took a bow, and sang:

  When you haven’t got what you love

  Why then you love what you’ve got.

  He took a bow and sat down. “I can’t complain, I’ve gotten something out of life, others get more, but so what, besides, who knows, everyone talks nineteen to the dozen, brags that he’s made it with this one, with that one, but in truth it’s nothing much, he goes back home, sits down, takes off his shoes and goes to bed alone with himself, so why so much talk, I at least, you see, when one concentrates on oneself and begins to render to oneself small, insignificant little pleasures, not only erotic ones, because you can amuse yourself like a pasha with bread pellets, for example, or by wiping your pince-nez, for about two years I carried on like this, they keep bothering me with family affairs, the office, politics, while I just keep on with my pince-nez . . . and so, I tell you, what was I going to say, ah yes, you have no idea how one swells to an enormous size from such trifles, you wouldn’t believe it, a man grows larger, when the sole of your foot itches it’s as if it were happening in Galicia, in the southeasternmost regions, actually one can also get some satisfaction from the itching of the sole, it all depends on your approach, how you formulate the intention, if a corn can be painful, young man, why can’t it also provide you with pleasure? How about poking your tongue into the nooks of your teeth? What was I going to say? Epicureanism, rapturism, can be twofold, because primum there is the wild boar, the buffalo, the lion, secundum the little flea, fly, ergo on a large scale and on a small scale, but if on a small scale, one needs the ability to microscopize, to dosify, to properly apportion and dismember into parts, because the eating of a candy can be divided into stages of primum smelling, secundum licking, tertium inserting, quatrum playing with your tongue, your saliva, quintum spitting it into your hand, looking at it, sextum breaking it with the aid your tooth, but let these several steps suffice, as you can see, one can somehow manage without dancing parties, champagne, dinner parties, caviar, décolletages, frufru, pantyhose, panties, busts, preening, tickling hee, hee, hee, wowow, what are you doing to the back of my neck, sir, how dare you, heehee, hahaha, ohohoh, ooh, ooh. I sit at supper, I chat with the family, with the boarders, and I even avail myself of a bit of Parisian café chantant quietly on the side. Let them catch me if they can! Ha, ha, ha, they won’t catch me! The whole thing depends on sort of making oneself inwardly comfy with fans, with plumes, rapturously and most enjoyably, in the mode of Sultan Selim the Magnificent. What’s important is the artillery discharge. As well as ringing the bells.”

  He rose, bowed, sang:

  When you haven’t got what you love

  Why then you love what you’ve got.

  He bowed. He sat down.

  “You are probably accusing me in your thoughts of being a loony-ium.”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Indeed, do accuse me, this makes it easier. I’m playing a madman in order to make it easier. If I didn’t make it
easier, this whole thing would become too difficult. Do you love fun?”

  “I love it.”

  “So you see, siree, we’ve somehow come to an understanding. A simple matter. A man . . . loves . . . what? He loves. Lovey-loves. Lovey-loves berg.”

  “Berg,” I responded.

  “What?”

  “Berg!”

  “How so?”

  “Berg.”

  “Enough! Enough! No . . . ”

  “Berg!”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, you’ve really bemberged me out; the point is—you’re cool on top but ready to pop! Imagine that! You’re a real berg-bergman. Bergumberg! Onward! Full speed ahead! And away! Berg-and-away!”

  I stared at the ground—staring at the ground again, with its grasses . . . clods of dirt . . . So many billions!

  “Lick it!”

  “What?”

  “Lick it, I tell you, lickieberg . . . or spit yourself into it!”

  “What’s the matter with you?! What’s the matter with you?!”I exclaimed.

  “Spit oneself into it with bemberg into bergum!”

  The Meadow. Trees. The stump. Coincidences. Chance. Don’t panic! It’s pure chance that he’s talking about this “spitting oneself into”. . . but surely not into her mouth . . . Calm down! He’s not talking about me!

  “Tonight is the celebration.”

  “Of what?”

  “Tonight is the pilgrimage.”

  “You are a pious one,” I remarked, and he looked at me with the same strange solicitude as before and said ardently yet humbly: “How could I not be pious, piety is ab-so-lute-ly and re-lent-lessly demanded, even the least little pleasure cannot occur without piety, oh, what am I saying, I don’t know, I sometimes get lost as if in a huge monastery, but do understand, all this is the monastic and the holy mass of my rapture, amen, amen, amen.”