Bacacay

by Witold Gombrowicz

  “Aha, so having an inkling that death was drawing close, you locked yourselves in to keep death away as it approached? So—you were all waiting for the murder after all?”

  “We were waiting?”

  “Yes. But in that case who could possibly have murdered him? Because he was murdered, and you were all simply waiting, and there’s absolutely no way an outsider could have come in.”

  He was silent.

  “But I really was locked in my room,” he whispered, sagging under the weight of irrefutable logic. “There’s been some mistake.”

  “But in that case who could possibly have murdered him?” I said assiduously. “Who could possibly have murdered him?”

  He lost himself in thought—as if he were taking terrible stock of his conscience—he was pale and motionless, his gaze withdrawn deep below his half-closed eyelids. Had he glimpsed something there, deep within himself ? What had he glimpsed? Perhaps he had seen himself rising from his bed and cautiously walking up the treacherous stairs, his hands ready for the deed? And perhaps for just a moment he was seized by doubt that after all, who knew whether such a thing ... would be completely unthinkable. Perhaps in that one second hatred appeared to him as the complement of love, who knows (this is only my conjecture) if in that twinkling of an eye he had not glimpsed the terrible duality of every emotion—that love and hatred are two sides of the same thing. And this blinding though momentary revelation must have instantly laid waste to everything within him—and he with all his pity became unbearable to himself. And though this lasted only a second, it was enough, for he had been forced to grapple with my suspicions for twelve hours now, for twelve hours he had felt someone senselessly, stubbornly pursuing him, and he had probably ruminated on the absurdity of thought a thousand times—he bowed his head like a broken man, and then raised it, looked at me from close by with boundless determination and said distinctly, right to my face:

  “It was me. I—steamed out.”

  “What do you mean, you steamed out?”

  “I steamed out, I say, because as you remarked, it was—without thinking—full steam ahead.”

  “What?! It’s true! You’re confessing? It was you? It was you—really?”

  “It was me. I steamed out.”

  “Aha—just so. And the whole thing lasted no longer than a minute.”

  “No longer. A minute at most. And I don’t know if we’re not overestimating at a minute. Then afterward I returned to my room, got into bed, and fell asleep—and before I fell asleep I yawned and thought to myself—I remember vividly—that oho, tomorrow I’ll have to get up in the morning!”

  I was astonished—he had confessed to everything so smoothly; or rather not so much smoothly, for his voice was hoarse, as fiercely, with extraordinary relish. There could be no doubt! No one could deny it! Yes—but what about the neck, what was to be done with the neck, which was in the bedroom dully sticking to its story? My mind worked feverishly—but what can a mind do when faced with the mindlessness of a corpse?

  I looked despondently at the murderer, who seemed to be waiting. And it’s hard to explain, but at this moment I realized that nothing was left to me but a frank confession. There was no point in continuing to beat one’s head against the wall, that is, against the neck—further resistance or evasion was useless. And the moment I realized this, I immediately acquired great confidence in him. I realized that I had gone too far, that I had gotten up to a little too much mischief—and, in deep waters, tired, exhausted by so much effort, so many faces made, I suddenly became a child, a helpless little boy, and I had a wish to confess to my big brother my mistake and the trouble I had caused. It seemed to me that he would understand ... and surely he wouldn’t refuse me some advice ... “Yes,” I thought, “nothing remains but a frank confession ... He’ll understand, he’ll help! He’ll find a way!” But in any case I rose and moved unobtrusively toward the door.

  “You see,” I said, and my lips were a little out of control, “there’s a certain stumbling block here ... a certain obstacle—of a purely formal character, as it happens—nothing of significance. The thing is”—I already had my hand on the door handle—“that actually the body shows no signs of asphyxiation. Physically speaking —he wasn’t asphyxiated at all, but rather died of an ordinary heart attack. The neck, you know, the neck! ... The neck was untouched!”

  Having said this, I ran for it out the open door and rushed as fast as my legs would carry me along the hallway. I dashed into the room where the dead man lay and hid in the wardrobe—and with some degree of confidence, though with fear too, I waited. It was dark, cramped, and stuffy, and the deceased’s trousers brushed against my cheek. I waited for a long time, and began to doubt, thinking that nothing would happen and that I had been basely duped, that I had been cheated! All at once the door opened quietly and someone crept in—after which I heard an awful noise, the bed creaked like crazy, and in the absolute silence all the formalities were dealt with after the fact! Then the steps receded just as they had come. When after a long hour I climbed out of the wardrobe, trembling and drenched in perspiration, violence reigned amid the disordered bedsheets; the body was thrown diagonally across a crumpled pillow, and the dead man’s neck bore clear imprints of all ten fingers. The forensic experts looked askance at those imprints, it was true, saying that something was not as it should have been in all this—but the imprints, in conjunction with the criminal’s unequivocal confession at the hearing, were taken as sufficient proof.

  Dinner at Countess Pavahoke’s

  It is hard to determine with complete certainty what established my closeness with Countess Pavahoke—of course, when I speak of closeness, I am referring to the slight degree of familiarity that can exist between a well-bred person who is every inch an aristocratic member of Society, and an individual from the good, worthy, yet only middle classes. I flatter myself that perhaps a certain loftiness I am sometimes capable of manifesting in favorable circumstances, a deeper gaze, and a certain sense of idealism, had captured for me the fastidious affections of the countess. For ever since I was a child I felt myself to be a thinking reed and I was marked by a fondness for sublime matters; I often spend long hours discussing beautiful and exalted topics.

  Thus, disinterested curiosity, nobility of thought, a romantic, aristocratic, idealistic disposition of mind rather anachronistic in today’s times gained me, I believe, access to the countess’ petits fours and to her extraordinary Friday dinners. Because the countess was one of those higher women—on the one hand evangelical, on the other a Renaissance spirit—she sponsored charitable raffles, and at the same time worshipped the muses. She was admired for her many humanitarian activities—her charity teas and artistic afternoons, in which she took part like some Medici, were widely known—and simultaneously there was the alluring exclusivity of the smaller salon in her palace, in which the countess received only a small handful of truly intimate and trusted guests.

  But most famous of all were the countess’ meatless Friday dinners. These dinners—as she herself put it—had the quality of a respite in the daily round of philanthropy; they were something along the lines of a holiday and a departure from the usual. “I want to have something for myself too,” the countess said with a mournful smile as she invited me for the first time, two months ago, to one of these dinners. “Please come on Friday, sir. There’ll be a little singing, music, a few of my closest friends—and you ... and the reason it’s on Friday is so there won’t be a single thought of meat”—she gave a slight shudder—“of that eternal meat of yours, and that blood. There’s too much carnivorousness! Too many meat vapors! You no longer see any happiness other than a bloody beefsteak; you avoid fasts—you’d devour that revolting offal all day long without a break. I’m throwing down the gauntlet,” she added with a subtle narrowing of the eyes, as always meaningful and symbolic. “I wish to convince everyone that a fast is not a diet but—a feast for the soul.” What an honor! To be included among the ten, at most
fifteen, persons admitted to the countess’ meatless dinners!

  The upper world always drew me magnetically, the world of these dinners all the more so. It seemed that Countess Pavahoke’s unspoken idea was to build, as it were, new earthworks to protect the Fortress of the Holy Trinity from the barbarity of the present day (it was not for nothing that the blood of the Krasińskis flowed in her veins)—it seemed she adhered to the profound conviction that the old aristocracy was called upon not only to add superficial luster to entertainments and receptions, but that in all fields, including the spiritual and the artistic, by dint of its superiority of breeding it is capable of ensuring its own self-sufficiency—that accordingly, to achieve a truly sublime salon, an aristocratic salon suffices in every respect. This was an archaic thought, somewhat amateurish, but in any case—in its venerable archaicness uncommonly bold and profound, such as could unquestionably be expected of a descendant of the historic commanders. And indeed when, at table, in the antique dining room, far from dead bodies and murder and from the millions of slaughtered cattle, under the countess’ leadership representatives of the most ancient lines revived memories of Platonic symposia—it seemed that the spirit of poetry and philosophy hovered amid the crystal and the flowers, and that enchanted words formed themselves into rhymes of their own accord.

  There was one duke present, for instance, who at the request of the countess took on the role of intellectual and philosopher, and did so in such a ducal style, and uttered such beautiful and noble ideas, that if Plato had heard them he would have been embarrassed and would in all probability have stood behind the duke’s chair with a napkin over his arm, ready to bring new dishes. There was a baroness who undertook to grace the company with song, though she had never taken singing lessons before that moment; and I doubt whether Adi Sari herself could have found so much bon ton within. There was something inexpressibly marvelous, marvelously vegetarian—I might say, luxuriously vegetarian—in the gastronomic moderation of those parties; and the immense fortunes modestly bending over a portion of cabbage left an unforgettable impression, especially against the background of the terrible carnivorousness of present-day relations. Even our teeth, the teeth of rodents, seemed in this place to lose the mark of Cain that they bore . . . . While as far as the cuisine was concerned, it was beyond dispute that the countess’ vegetarian cuisine had no equal; uncommonly rich was the taste of her tomatoes stuffed with rice, and her asparagus omelettes were phenomenal in their firmness and aroma.

  On the Friday in question, after a few months I had once again been honored with an invitation, and it was not without an unavoidable nervousness that I pulled up in a modest dorozhka before the ancient façade of the palace, situated just outside Warsaw. But instead of the dozen or so guests that I expected to find there were only two, and far from illustrious ones at that—a toothless old marchioness who out of necessity ate nothing but vegetables all week long, and a certain baron, namely Baron de Apfelbaum, from a somewhat dubious family who, with numbers in the millions and with his mother—who came from the family of the Pstryczyński dukes—had compensated for the number of his ancestors and his disastrous nose. Also, right from the beginning I sensed an almost imperceptible dissonance . . . a certain discordant quality . . . and moreover the pumpkin paste soup—specialité de la maison—the sweet pumpkin soup, boiled till it was soft, which was served as the first course, turned out to be unexpectedly paltry, watery and insubstantial. Despite this I did not betray the slightest surprise or disappointment (such manifestations would have been appropriate anywhere else, but not at Countess Pavahoke’s); instead, with a glowing, rapt expression I managed to produce a compliment:This soup’s deliciously filling—

  And made, what’s more, without corpses or killing.

  As I mentioned, at the countess’s Friday parties verse rose to one’s mouth of its own accord as a consequence of the exceptional harmony and high-mindedness of those gatherings—it would simply have been unseemly not to intersperse the periods of prose with rhyme. Then suddenly—to my consternation—Baron de Apfelbaum, who as a poet of immeasurable delicacy and an exacting gourmet was doubly an admirer of the inspired gastronomy of our hostess, leaned over to me and whispered in my ear with ill-concealed repugnance and a malice which I would never have suspected in him:The soup would have been rich and thick

  If the cook weren’t such a . . .

  Startled by his outburst, I gave a cough. What did he mean by this? Fortunately the baron pulled himself together at the last moment. What on earth had happened since my last visit—this dinner seemed a mere spectre of a dinner, the food was mediocre, and everyone had a long face. After the soup the second course was served—a platter of meager, sparse carrots in browned flour. I admired the countess’ spiritual fortitude! Pale, clad in a black evening gown and wearing the family diamonds, with utmost courage she was consuming the indifferent dish, forcing the others to follow her lead—and with her customary skill she guided the conversation to exalted regions. She began charmingly, though not without melancholy, fluttering her napkin:May deeper thoughts among us flow!

  Tell me—wherein does Beauty grow?

  I responded at once, assuming an appropriate air, the front of my tailcoat gleaming:Most beautiful is Love, without a doubt,

  Which twinkles all about;

  On us, and on the birds that wield nor plow, nor sword,

  Tiny tailcoated lambs of the Lord.

  The countess smiled in gratitude at the immaculate beauty of this notion. The baron—like a thoroughbred stallion seized by the spirit of noble rivalry—replied, wiggling his fingers, scattering sparks from precious stones, and pouring out rhymes the mastery of which he alone possessed:Beautiful the rose,

  Beautiful the snows (etc.),

  But more beautiful still is the feeling of pity.

  Look now—woe betide!

  The rain is still falling outside!

  There’s been foul weather for three days already;

  Wretched are the poor and unsteady.

  Yes—a tear of compassion, a raindrop of pity—

  That’s the secret of what’s noble and pretty!

  “You expressed that magnificently, my dear sir,” the toothless marchioness lisped in delight. “Marvelous! Pity! St. Francis of Assisi! I have my own poor little ones, children suffering from rickets, to whom I’ve devoted the whole of my toothless old age! We ought always to remember the poor and the unfortunate . . .”

  “Prisoners, and cripples who cannot afford artificial limbs,” added the baron.

  “Old, haggard, retired, emaciated schoolmistresses,” the countess said compassionately.

  “Barbers with varicose veins and starving miners suffering from sciatica,” I put in, touched.

  “Yes,” said the countess, and her eyes glistened and ran off into the distance, “Yes! Love and Pity, two flowers—roses de thé—the tea roses of life . . . But one’s obligations toward oneself should not be forgotten either!”—and, thinking for a moment, she paraphrased the famous saying of Joseph Poniatowski: “God entrusted Maria Pavahoke to me; only to Him will I give her up!”Within me I must stir up ideals, elation,

  A flame that burns without cessation!

  “Bravo! Incomparable! What an idea!—profound! wise! proud! God entrusted Maria Pavahoke to me; only to Him will I give her up!” everyone exclaimed; while I permitted myself sotto voce to strum a patriotic chord (since Prince Joseph had been mentioned): And never forget—the White Eagle of our nation!

  The manservants brought in an immense cauliflower dressed in fresh butter and marvelously browned—alas, on the basis of my prior experiences it could be surmised that it was a consumptive brown. This was what conversation was like at the countess’—what a feast it was even in such unfavorable culinary circumstances. I flatter myself that my assertion about Love being most beautiful was not the most shallow of assertions; I even believe that it could provide the crowning moment of many a long philosophical poem. But right away another
dinner guest, raising the bidding, tosses out an aphorism that says Pity is more beautiful even than Love. Excellent—and true! For indeed, when one thinks more deeply about it, Pity is even more encompassing, and covers more with its cloak, than sublime Love. And that’s not the end of it —the countess, our wise Amphitryon, concerned that we should not dissolve without a trace in Love and Pity, mentions our lofty obligations toward ourselves—and then I, subtly exploiting the rhyme on “-ation,” add just one more thing: “The White Eagle of our nation.” And the form, the manner, the way of speaking, the noble and refined moderation of the feast battles for the upper hand with its substance! “No!” I thought in delight. “Whoever has not attended one of the countess’ Friday parties cannot really say that he knows the aristocracy!” “The cauliflower is excellent,” murmured the baron, epicure and poet, all at once, and in his voice there sounded a pleasant surprise.

  “Indeed,” confirmed the countess, gazing suspiciously at her plate. As for myself, I did not notice anything out of the ordinary in the taste of the cauliflower; to me it seemed as wan as the preceding dishes.

  “Could Philip . . . ?” asked the countess, and her eyes shot daggers.

  “It should be checked!” said the marchioness mistrustfully.

  “Have Philip summoned!” ordered the countess.

  “There’s no reason to conceal anything from you, my dear friend,” said Baron de Apfelbaum; quietly, and not without suppressed irritation, he explained to me what the matter was. It turned out to be nothing less than the following: Two Fridays before, the countess had found her cook Philip seasoning the ideal of the fast with bouillon and the taste of meat! What a scoundrel! I couldn’t believe it! I found it impossible to believe! Truly, only a cook was capable of such a thing! Worse still, the recalcitrant cook apparently showed no remorse, and instead had the impudence to defend himself with the bizarre thesis that “he wanted to satisfy all parties.” What did he mean by this? (It seemed that he had previously served as cook to some bishop.) It was only when the countess threatened to give him his notice immediately that he swore he would desist! “Booby!” the baron concluded his story angrily. “Booby! He let himself be caught! And that’s why, as you see, today the majority of people did not come and . . . hm . . . if it weren’t for this cauliflower, I’d frankly be afraid that they made the right decision.”