Suddenly Cieciszowski seized my hand. “You were born with a cawl! Can you see the Baron? The Baron stands there; you have caught the Baron himself; he is at a vitrine and on his own, without his Partners. Let’s go to him or not go to him; we’ll talk to him about your work or we will not! Let me greet you, dear Baron, how’s your health, how do you fare or Not fare? This is Pan Gombrowicz who, by consequence of being cut off from the Country, has remained here and with us lives through our uncertitude and fear, and likewise seeks some employment!” The Baron looked at me and most cordially seized me in his arms! Then, joyful, he springs back and springs forth again, hugs me to his breast, “Perchance we might have a nibble or a nip,” invites me to his home and is looking for his Wife who got lost somewhere as to his Wife he wishes to introduce me. “Stop with us on Tuesday! We shall be pleased!” But Cieciszowski said: “He could do with an occupation for he is in need, and as swiftly as smoke I him to you, gracious Baron! Lavish set, lavish food.”—“Psht!” exclaimed the Baron. “Need? ’Tis already settled! Trouble yourself no more! Anon today I’ll order that you be appointed by the Partnership as my secretary with a salary of 1000 or 1500 pesos! Psht! Settled! The working hours you will choose yourself! So ’tis settled and now a Nip on’t—a nibble is what we need!”
So we are going with the Baron to have one, and in the glare of sun everything seems to be cast in order and I a Protector, Father and King magnanimous haply have found. Oh, thank you, God, and now ’twill be easier for me to live, cares and sorrows are bygone and vanished—but what is’t? God, oh God of mine, what goes here? Why has the King, this Baron of mine, subsided, quietened and now turned sullen, wan; why is that sun of mine setting behind a cloud? … Ah, ’tis Pyckal; Pyckal springs on us!
Pyckal, the Baron’s partner, was shorter than the Baron, stockier, and whereas the Baron was a magnificent, magnanimous, manly, noble Man, Pyckal was as if pulled from a dog’s throat or from behind a barn. In vain the Baron gives him Orders and states he has appointed me, a friend of his, as clerk; in response Pyckal only bumped, first at me then at the Baron and, Spitting, said, “Didye get dumped on your head to take on new Clerks for the Office without consulting me?! Are ye a Cretin? So for you I will drive out that clerk of yours, out, out, out!” By such terrible boorishness shaken, the Baron at first could not utter a word, then “I forbid it!” he cried, “I disallow!” At which Pyckal disgorged at him: “Forbid yourself, not me! Who are you forbidding?!” Shouted the Baron: “Please make no scandals!” Cried Pyckal: “Delicatus, delicatus—I will Pound that delicatus of yours, I’ll pound him Down!” … And towards me with his fists, and perchance he will Pound me, pound me out; belike he will pound me down, this beast, this bully, will butcher me, so Doom, Destruction for me, but what goes? Why does that Butcher of mine stay, why does he not pound on me? Ah, ’tis Ciumkala, the third partner of the Baron, from somewhere come forth!
Ciumkala, raw-boned, a blond, Oggling, ruddy, has taken off his cap and his Big Red hand puts out towards me: “Ciumkala I am.” And by this he put Pyckal into sudden amazement. “Save me!” yelled Pyckal, “I am pounding this one here and he breaks in with his paw and I haven’t seen with my own eyes a bigger Idiot, Blockhead. Why do you break in, why do you meddle?” “I forbid it,” shouted the Baron, “I disallow!” Ciumkala, frightened by this shouting, became embarrassed and put a big Hand into his pocket and with that hand began to paw about within the pocket; but at once became embarrassed by his Pawing and out of his embarrassment pretended he was trying to find something in his pocket; and by this he made the Baron, Pyckal all the more furious. “What are you looking for, you numskull?” they cried. “What are you looking for, you daw? What? …” Till Ciumkala, well-nigh dead from embarrassment, as a Beetroot red, took out of his pocket not only his hand but also a cork, some crumpled scraps of paper, a teaspoon, a shoestring, and some small dried fishes. But when they saw the Fishes, silence set in … as they had turned somewhat downcast because of those Fishes.
I remembered what Cieciszowski had told me that amongst them there were, as amongst Partners, old Splinters, Venoms and Acids, apparently about a Mill, a Dyke; and indeed for this reason Pyckal, seeing those Fishes, gasped and “My crucians, my Crucians!” he yelled, “you’ll Pay for them, I’ll send you off a pauper.” But the Baron only agitated his Adam’s apple, gulped, adjusted his collar, and said: “The ledger.” To this Ciumkala said: “The Barn got burned ’cause of that Buckwheat,” whereupon Pyckal looked askance and muttered: “There was water.” And so they stood, Stood until Ciumkala scratched himself behind the ear; and whilst he is scratching behind the ear, the Baron rubs his ankle and Pyckal his right shin.
Says the Baron: “Scratch yourself not.” Says Pyckal: “I’m not Scratching myself.” Ciumkala said: “I have Scratched myself.” Said Pyckal: “I’ll Scratch you.” Says the Baron: “Scratch, scratch away—this is what you are for.” Says Pyckal: “I’ll not Scratch you, let your Secretary scratch you.” Says the Baron: “My secretary will Scratch me if I order him to.” Said Pyckal: “I will engage your Secretary for Myself and take him from you—and me he will Scratch when I would, for though you are a High-born Sir and I a Base-born Boor, me he will Scratch if I would so or would no. Scratch he will.” Says the Baron: “Whether a Base-born boor or a High-born Sir, you will not engage this Secretary; I will engage him for me, and he will Scratch me, not you.”
Cries Ciumkala then, in full, wistful plaint: “Oh, Help, help! All for yourself to yourself you would fain Scratch, at my Expense, with a Loss to me, Disaster; oh, then I’ll him, not for you—for me engage, I’ll him Engage!” Then they drag me, pull; one tugs me from the other, Drag, Drag, and so they dragged me to a house, there Steps, up these steps they drag, tug; one wrests me from another; there a small side door and on it a board: “The Baron, Ciumkala, Pyckal: Equine-Canine Trade.” And beyond the door, a Hall large, darkish; in it Chairs. In a chair the Baron to Ciumkala, Ciumkala to the Baron, to Pyckal, Pyckal to Ciumkala, to the Baron had me seated and, having asked me most politaly to wait awhile, they went to another room, on the door of which there was a sign: “Properties and Transactions Management, Entry Prohibited.”
Left alone (for Cieciszowski long ago had made himself scarce) in the quietude that set in after that noisy entry of ours, I looked about with curiosity. The strangeness of these people (and in all my Life it would be hard to search out stranger ones) and the brawl they had been having amongst themselves greatly disinclined me from any contact with them; but hope for permanent and perchance higher wages compelled me to remain. The hall, as I say, was darkish, lined with dark wallpaper, but paper much frayed … or a grease Spot … or a Hole or a slight Rip, but mended, by flies be speckled, and a candlestick with a candle, stearin splotched everywhere. Floorboards tattered, from walking worn, and there, in a Corner, an old newspaper; here a Whip babbles secretly whilst the Newspaper moves with a rustle as haply Mice are sitting under it. Presently likewise a Boot has begun to move and come nigh some Tobacco, and a small Insect that issued from a slit in the floor is industriously making for Sugar.
Amidst these rustlings I slightly opened the door that led to the next Room. A big room, long and Darkish, and a row of tables at which clerks sit, over Promissory Notes, Ledgers, Folios studiously bent; and such a number of Papers, so lumped, Swamped that you can hardly move, for likewise on the floor there a multitude of papers and old scribblings; and Ledgers from a cupboard protrude and even to the ceiling heave, out onto the windowsills bulge and swamp the whole Office. So if any of the clerks moves, he rustles as a Mouse in these papers. Albeit, amidst the papers, there are many other things as Flagons, or bent tin, further on a broken saucer, spoon, a shred of muffler, bald brush, further on a piece of brick, next a corkscrew, a scrap of bread, many Shoes, likewise cheese, feathers, Kettle and umbrella. Closest to me a Clerk, old, thin, sat and a nib under the light scrutinized, with his finger testing it, and as if he suffered from Gum-boil, some cotton wool in h
is ear; behind him another Clerk, younger and red-cheeked, on an abacus counted whilst chewing a sausage; further on a lady clerk with her hair cosseted, kiss-curled, is inspecting herself in a mirror and adjusting her curls; and further on other clerks, of the which perchance there were eight or ten. This one is writing; and that one is searching through a Ledger. Whereupon Tea was brought in, viz. Mugs with coffee and buns on a tray, and then all the clerks, having paused in their work, set upon the food. And anon, as usual, discourse sounded. I was overcome by laughter at the sight of that Coffee Drinking of those clerklets! Since at first sight one could see that, for years sitting together in this Office, every day the eternal Coffee drinking and the eternal Bun munching, with these same old jokes treating themselves, they at once all there was of theirs comprehended.
So the lady clerk pushed back her curls and said “Plunk” (she has haply said it some thousand times), to which the fat cashier who sat behind her exclaims thus: “Hi diddle diddle, Mother Squiddie!” from which an extraordinary Glee; all the Clerks are laughing, holding their tummies! But scarce had that laughter sunk into the Papers, when the old Accomptant wagged his finger … and all hold their tummies as they know what he is about to say … and he says: “Squiddle fiddle, de dum dum Diddle!” So the Clerklets, even more gleeful, in papers rustle. But the Lady Clerk her right cheek on the Little Finger of her left hand rested! But the Lady Clerk her cheek on her Little Finger rested! … And then the Accomptant rapped the shoulder of the red-cheeked Under-Clerk hard and whispers to him: “Waste no tears, no tears waste, Józef, Józef; for Penknife, saucer, fly, a Fly was there!” …
I could not understand why the Accomptant spoke to him of Tears if he was not crying … but in this very moment the red-cheeked Bookkeeper lapsed into suppressed sobbing at the sight of that Little Finger! So again I was seized by laughter: seemingly year upon year, and for ages that Little Finger, along with the Cheek, scratched old wounds of the bookkeeper the which festered in his heart, and perchance for years that companion of his had given him some consolation; but instead of the Bookkeeper crying first and the Accomptant then consoling him, the sequence of actions was confused by them and what had been the End went to the beginning! The Lady Clerk tossed up a handkerchief! The cashier gave a sneeze! And the old accomptant wiped his nose! Suddenly they noticed me and, becoming terribly embarrassed, into their papers as Mice caved.
But anon I was summoned to the Principals. A closet, darkish, where I was led likewise filled with papers, old scribblings; and what is more, an old iron Bed stood by the wall and likewise a bucket, likewise a Wash Bowl, a double barrel on the window, shoes, Flypaper. Pyckal a crate for the Baron held whilst Ciumkala some receipts from a Ledger read. And All three to me: “Me, scratch me! Scratch me! Scratch me!”
In this whole life of mine many strange places and even stranger people have I beheld, but amidst those places and people naught so bizarre as this present episode of my Life. The inveterate quarrel between the Baron, Pyckal and Ciumkala had its beginning in a Mill, the which fell to them in equal parts from the Liquidation; then in three inns put out to lease it was rekindled yet the more strongly. And when a Still (with right of propination) was taken as the result of subhastation apparently to make payments, the more the strife, the venom. The division of funds was well-nigh impossible to execute since the court’s judgment was appealed twice by each of the three parties, the judicial hearing six times adjourned; in the end, for the lack of written proof, a Survey was ordered, the which Survey shewing obvious contradiction between the first and second record of Subhastation. And to all this a mutual summoning for Usurpation of Property, threats and desire to murder, Kill, and two summonses for Foray and one for appropriation of six pearl pins and a Ring … and so summonses, forays, assaults, strifes, venoms, desire to Kill, deprive of Property, ruin, send off a Pauper. So when as Surety for Subhastation, the equine-canine Trade was to be taken over on the basis of the Record, all three of them acceded to this Trade in equal parts, and Dogs, Horses buying up from people, sold them at great profit. Albeit, although despite highly noteworthy profits from this Trade, the partnership was threatened by Bankruptcy since, lookye, so many old Furors, Assaults, so much mutual munching, crunching, so much bitterness, so many Acidities, and that Hell-mongering rabid, without end.
But this quarrelsomeness not so much perchance out of financial settlings as out of differings in natures. Since the Baron as a Bumblebee whirrs and soars and Bounces, as a Peacock swaggers his tail, as a Falcon flying on high; and Pyckal as a Bull with his bawling, howling churlish, churlish charges; and Ciumkala Paws about; and the Baron as if driven in a carriage, four horse, Orders gives and a Trumpet trumpets; and Pyckal stuffed with churlishness just Gawps it out; and Ciumkala with Cap in fist for that ensliming of his; so the Baron Whims, Moods, Caprices, Fancies; so Pyckal would a muzzle slap or his Breeches shed; so Ciumkala licking or Dawdling… Ergo one would drown the other in a spoon of water, but in the continuous sequence of Trials, summonses, quarrels, in that ceaseless Gnawing communion, so one with the other as bigos, as Hodgepodge mixed, stewed, that perchance one cannot live without the other and in this mouldy Cheese, in this inveterate Boot of theirs, as Toes bent, Hideous, and with themselves only! Ergo they are with themselves! Ergo they are amongst themselves! And they have forgotten God’s world, with themselves only, amongst themselves, self-selved; and from the old days so many Relicks have piled up, so many reminiscences, rancours, divers words, corks, old Flagons, Double-Barrels, tins, divers rags, bones, brads, saucepans, scraps of tin, ringlets, so that no stranger who approached them could sense what they to him will say or do ’cause a Cork or a Flagon or a word heedlessly thrown out at once reminds them of something Older and Baked In, and moves them as a weathercock on a Church tower.
Ergo, if not for the old Fishes that had then fallen out of Ciumkala’s pocket, if not for the Ledger, and scratching the Leg, I perchance would not have been engaged as a clerk by them. But alike for the reason of a small Flagon or a Crate, instead of 1000 or 1500 Pesos that had been promised by the Baron as my recompense, only 185 Pesos I was given. And also the oldest Clerks, when they went to the Principals with their deeds, documents, never knew what, lookye, was going to be fried up for them, what decision Pyckal to the Baron, the Baron to Ciumkala, Ciumkala to the Baron, to Pyckal would give. Ergo, many commands, orders, many affairs: now Horses ceded, now a mortgage transferred, next surety, sharing of dividends, Dogs pawned (Bulldogs only), propination, execution; so documents they write, scribble; Accompts, summonses issue, enforce; bid, further mortgage or Subhastate; but, lookye, what matter if behind all that, under it, an Old herring or a Bun which the Baron nipped from Pyckal seventeen years ago.
When next morning I presented myself at work and amidst the Clerks, now Colleagues, sat, the difficulty of this new duty of mine appeared to me clearly. The clerks, deep in their Papers, to their Accompts devoted, in their functions, duties anxious not even to look at me, a stranger; yet to me their Crabbings, their old jars, were incomprehensible and unfathomable.
Popacki, the old Accomptant, gave me Deeds to enter, but the devil knows whether there was any need for that entering, viz. that man, not large in stature, very Thin, in glasses dark, hornrimmed, as a mummy dried up, with Sparse hair that as a wreath wrapped around his large Bald pate; and also Fingers long, lean. Watching my work, this or that character he corrects for me now and again, and scratches himself behind the ear, or wipes his nose, or flicks a mote off his suit; but most eagerly breadcrumbs for sparrows through the window throws. Ah, plainly a good soul the Accomptant, good soul to the bone, and although this plodding of his and extraordinary punctiliousness in everything frequently made me laugh, I avoided everything that might hurt the dear old man; and would even take his snuff, the which, long since hatched in some mouse’s nest, and who knows by what Mould seasoned, of his Cashmere waistcoat smelled.
But, in sooth, I was not disposed to laugh. Although my existence being somewha
t secured, the complex of all conditions and circumstances as: viz. a Country Foreign, the strangeness of the city, want of friends or confidants, oddness of that Work of mine… filled me with some fear; to this also heavy Combat beyond the water and with bloodshed, and many people, friends of mine or relations, now no one knows where are, what do, perchance give souls to God. Thus although far away, beyond the water it was, one is somewhat more Careful, more quietly speaks, more calmly Moves so as not to arouse an Evil, and as a Hare would crouch in a furrow. Therefore a small Crumb of bread on an inkpot having noticed, I often upon this crumb did look and it even with the end of my pen did touch …
Yet my affair with the Legation galled me most of all. But surely His Excellency the Envoy had not celebrated his Celebrations with me to let them be washed away; and when I sit at the desk, Deeds enter, they perchance theirs, and who knows if they are not, though without my knowledge, doing something further with me. So sit I, write, but think what are they with me, what do they take of me, make of me. Indeed, my presentiments did not deceive me for when in the evening I returned to the Pension, a large bouquet of white and red fuchsias from the Minister was handed me, and with it a letter from the Counsellor. In the most polite words the Counsellor advised me that on the morrow he would call to take me to the painter Ficinati’s for the soirée, the which was to be honoured by the presence of Writers and Artists from hereabouts. Besides this letter and the flowers, two more Bouquets were handed me, the which came from our native Chairmen from hereabouts, and both with ribbons and appropriate inscriptions. Further besides, little Children arrived, and at my window Canticles sang.
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