Trans-Atlantyk

by Witold Gombrowicz

  Straightway I look, no one there. Escaped, the rascal, apparently having taken fright at his own shouts, and me alone he left with just that Walk of mine. I ceased Walking. A hall large with divers things filled but one upon the other, one with the other, there a Triptych under a Vase, yonder a Carpet upon a Candelabra, an Armchair upon a Chair, a Goblin, a Madonna … and Brothel, Brothel, Brothel, and with no shame one with the other couples as it goes, Brothel. Likewise squeals, yelps, shuffling of all animals, the which scurried after each other in every corner, behind curtains, behind settees and, instead of a Dog after a Bitch, a Dog perchance with a Cat or with a Wolverine, with a Goose, a hen, perchance with a rat, Flaming, Fevering, and a Bitch with a Hamster, a Cat with an Otter, a Rat with a Cow perchance, and so, epithalamium, Brothel, Brothel and Epithalamium, and naught, and naught and let it go, and on! Jesus Maria! Merciful Christ! Mother of Sorrows! And ahead of me from hence Filicide, from thence Patricide.

  Ergo ’twas certain that the Old Man in that tenacity of his is ready to fulfil his oath, Ignac with a knife—or not a knife—will stab … and also certain, obvious, that Gonzalo’s words are not just words, and that he has a Way to Ignac to bring him to Patricide … and so perchance but for Homicide naught to be done, and the only thing is whether that Homicide will take the form of Patricide or Filicide … I before Tomasz, that father of mine, to my Knees fain would fall … but again Gonzalo’s shouting “Filistria, Filistria” sounded in my ears, blowing up my ears, so I from my knees spring into that Walk of mine, a Walk strike up; I Walk, Walk, and perchance the whole house shattering I am and the Old Man killing! What to me the Old Man! The Old Man to slaughter, slay! The Old Man somewhere to reach, snuff out! Let the young one snuff out the Old! Forever is a Father to slaughter a Son? Never a Son a Father?

  Ergo I walk and Walk. Yet when I so Walk ’twas as if my walking began to go somewhere and to lead me somewhere (although I myself know not where)… and in some place there Ignac sleeping lies … then that Walk of mine walks and walks and walks and there Ignac … and I Walk, and there Ignac in some place, in the chamber the which Gonzalo to him assigned … Now I think to myself, to what end this Walk, to Ignac I will go, to Ignac … and, when this thought visited me, I that Walking of mine to the corridor directed, the which to Ignacy’s chamber led; and there dark, the Corridor, the rascal Corridor, long. Straight my foot on something soft, Warm did step and, upon remembering the Dogs the which here from everywhere came forth, I think: Dog—not a Dog. Frightened, I lit a match, yet not a Dog it was but a Boy, big, darkish, who on the floor lies and at me without a single word gazes, his eyeballs bulging. He did not move. Over him I stepped and keep going, and the Match burnt out, on something my Foot steps, methinks, “Dog—not a Dog,” a match I light, look: a big Boy with feet big, bare, who, out of sleep awakened, at me gazes; ergo I keep going but the match burnt out and again on two Lads I stepped, one of whom white, Hair Reddish, the second smaller, thin, and both at me gaze but say naught, and only on their other sides turn.

  I keep going. The corridor long. I perceived that here lads Employed on the estancia were lodged at night… the which surprised me since it would be more proper if in the Farmhouses a porch were assigned to them … yet every master according to his own mind governs and Heeds Not his Neighbour’s Greeds. Howbeit, from the superabundance of those Boys some abomination overcame me so that I spat, yet methinks: but at what did you spit? And, having stopped, a new match I lit. Indeed there a Boy, darkish, quite Large, a-lying was, whom I, not willfully, did bespit and down his ear the Spittle was dripping. Naught he says, only at me gazes. The match burnt out.

  I was seized with choler and methinks: why should you Fix so on me when I Spit on you… and a second time him I Bespat. But naught, quiet, he moves not … Ergo a match I lit and see that a-lying he is, and on him that Spittle of mine is dripping. Yet the match burnt out and methinks: What, to all the Devils with it, you carrion, I spit on you and you naught, you rogue, you Knave, so once more I will Spit into your craw, into your gullet so that you know! … And I Spat but when a match I lit, I see that a-lying he is, naught, at me gazes. And burnt out the Match, whereupon I aloud say: “You something or other, you will not, you carrion, you rogue, you will not outdo me, and perchance you think that I will stop Spitting but just you wait, for I will Spit and am going to spit as much as I would!” Indeed I Bespat him but he moves not and, when a match I lit, I see that at me he does gaze.

  Ergo my thought this: perchance he thinks that I so for my Pleasure, for my Delight? … And, being dumbfounded, for rather a long time could venture naught, and a-standing I am, a-standing, and a-lying he is, a-lying, and naught, naught, time passes, flows on … till at last a jump over him I make; I escape as from Pestilence and rush, dash; into a wall crash, into a chamber or a porch burst and stop … for I feel that again something before me a-lying is. A pox on’t. Roguery, another one, and no end to’t, and flay your Chops I will … whereupon a Match I light. Ergo, on a bed by the wall Ignac a-lying is, naked as a Newborn babe, by sleep overcome, and naught, sleeping, breathing. Upon seeing him I was struck dumb, since seemingly as a decent youth he slept. But whilst he sleeps, within him Knavery and—ah, God, a Knave he is, naught else, Knave, Knave, capable of any Knavery, and were he given free rein he would become a Knave like to those Knaves!

  The morn of the next day hotter still than the preceding Afternoon shewed itself, and the air sultry, Humid; from which sweat heavy, Shirt wet. Moreover, Sultriness unbearable on the chest, on the mind, and in the bones, sinews all, wracking, the which compelled to constant Stretching, straining. And so we Sluggishly on this morn dawdle, sluggishly from beds arise, with the Host exchange greetings, and Breakfast, breathing heavily, partake. Gonzalo in a dressing gown, a morning one, Betraceried, made of Chamois, and in pumps, in nose-tickling Musk, and his Palm, white, pampered, little Fingers, white, sugary, with coffee offers. Little dogs, dogs divers aplenty … a tail if any has one wagging. What given we take, we thank! And the Bajbak again stands and again at Ignac a bit, a bit Moves, and this as if he on a pipe with those Movements of his accompanied him, but so imperceptibly, so subtly, that one knows not if he at Ignac does it or perchance with no intent, involuntarily blinks just so or his feet shifts. Howbeit, so skillfully and melodiously this Jester Horatio aside with Ignac’s every movement adjoins himself that naught else he does but on a Flute accompanies. And Gonzalo himself has noticed this for says: “Nicer to dine by wood-music.”

  Tomasz, who during that night perchance a score of years has acquired, from underneath his eyelids sunken with sight Grey, sunken and nigh age-old at those sports gazes … but utters naught … and only “Indeed” says, “such ingratitude I would not shew to our Host for his Hospitality as not to stay here with my Son a few days; and the affairs, although urgent, can wait.”

  Surprised was Ignacy, his eyes bulging (instantly likewise the Bajbak, accompanying those eyes, shifted his feet), but that decision of Tomasz’s exceedingly pleased Gonzalo and he exclaimed: “How happy this hour! A friend of mine you be! Let us go then to the park to stretch our bones. Come thou, come Ignasiek, we will see who is better on the Ball court, and Your Worships, elder Gentlemen, pray you, prithee be the Judges of our skill!” A ball from a cupboard took, at Ignac hurled it. Blushed Ignac, the Bajbak Swallowed; yet now to the park we are going and after us the dogs.

  The buzz of big, golden flies amidst Palms, bushes, parrots, in the thickery of bushy, feathery flowers and Bamboos, as into an embrace, sultry and humid, was drawing, since the heat could be felt even more without than within. Divers strange animals on the right, on the left scurried off and big yard Dogs, setters, came out with Noses towards us sniffing; but their Noses belike Lop-ears. After Ignac went the Bajbak, and so skillfully, the rascal, so melodiously, as if on a pipe his steps accompanying. Onto a meadow we came where a Palant court behind a fence, next to the Orangery. Having explained palant’s rules, the which not the same as for us (since a Ball,
from hand hurled against wall, after twice bouncing on the ground, a second time from air against wall hurled and into Bat-Basket, only after two Bounces can be hurled back), at once Gonzalo ball from hand hurled against wall and a second time hurled from double Bounce against wall into Bat-Basket; and exceeding skillful. Ignac sprang and in Bat-Basket on the bounce received it, and Gonzalo at once sprang and low to the ground from Bat-Basket shot … whizz; but Ignac sprang, reached it, shot, so ’tis whizzing but just a bit off; swerved! Swerved! Gonzalo after it ran and at Horatio shouted: “You idler, why are you standing about? Better to apply yourself to some Work… Such a Nuisance with this Lazy … take a Picket and those pegs pound in there, in that patch, for they loosen!” Again the ball he hurls up, Ignac jumps and it from bounce into bounce, ergo Gonzalo aslant … curved, curved! … Whereupon Ignac makes a jump, slams from Bat-Basket into Bat-Basket, the other cut the ball off in the air … smack, ergo Ignac nigh nigh caught it not, and upwards as an Arrow straight; and then Gonzalo from a Bounce! Bat-Basket! Bat-Basket! Wham! Away they wham: bam, bam, bam bam. So it Resounds!

  And here the Bajbak aside boom, boom, boom, boom the pegs in the patches with a picket pounds. Ignacy was losing. Gonzalo was winning. In vain Ignacy jumps, runs! Gonzalo, better trained, now Slices, now in Sprints hurls up, and past Ignacy’s Nose flies the ball. Bam, bam, bam, bam, Bat-Basket wang, Bat-Basket wham! And likewise Horatio aside boom, boom Pickets pounds. Enraged became Ignac and perchance with one last effort, red and sweating, boom that ball from a bounce; whereupon Horatio boom aside upon a picket! Whizzed, Gonzalo scarce could hurl back! Ergo Ignac again bam. When he bam, at once likewise Horatio to match Boom with a picket upon a peg … and so with this Boom-bam the ball whizzes, flies! Again Ignac Boom, Horatio Bam upon a picket, and with the Boombam the ball flashes so that Gonzalo almost misses it! Again Ignac bam upon the ball, Horatio boom upon a picket as if together against Gonzalo they did play; yet Ignac feeling that he has won an ally for himself ever the harder slams … And with the boom-bam playing they win! I at Tomasz look, and with those bushy eyes of his Tomasz looks and here boom, boom, bam, bam, bam and when Ignac boom, then Horatio bam, and so with the Boombam! Did Tomasz perceive that this is not Palant but a trap, that with this Boombam his Son is being charmed, that his Son is with this Boombam captivated? Naught the Old Man was uttering. The dogs were biting each other. When the game was finished, Ignac sweating, Overheated, ergo gasps for breath, gasps; and straightway Gonzalo to congratulate him, hug, glorify that exceeding skill of his! And so it went! And naught else from Morn till eve but this captivating of the Son, with the help of that Bajbak this Son’s capturing … whilst the Father with his age-old eyes anxiously looks on! From morn till eve the same Shame, the same satanic, hellish design of Gonzalo’s amidst Parrots, buzzing Flies, as a snake green, large, in the grass, in the weeds.

  Since by now it has become clear for what he that Horatio did need. Ergo, we went to visit the stables, and there Mules, exceeding vicious, seemingly like Horses’ their limbs, but their biting smacks of Donkey. And says Gonzalo in this sultriness, in this heat: “Nobody can sit bareback on these Mules for they throw off” and at once Ignac says: “I will try”; and then Gonzalo: “Horatio, why are you Doing naught? Take betimes that Mare, over the bar with her, for she has forgotten the jumps.” And when the Mule threw Ignacy off, off the mare Horatio likewise fell, ergo the one and the other scrambled up; their bones they tend, with laughter rent, and thus their Laughter, Falls they blend. A-laugh is Gonzalo! Or now with a fowling piece at birds, but says Gonzalo: “Take you, Horatio, a popgun, at crows on the slope behind the barn pop for they peck the hens’ eggs too much …” And so, whilst Ignac at birds in a grove, there Horatio at crows on the slope…and again shots blend … Or whilst Ignac in a pond a-bathing was, Horatio into the water did fall, whereupon Ignac him by a leg caught and onto the bank pulled. Such this incessant blending, such that Bajbak’s eternal, incessant, bothersome accompanying, companying in everything, bothering! Ignacy, although perchance as well has marked what and how, and Gonzalo’s wicked design in all this has sensed, cannot prevent his own capers, noisings, with like capers, noisings of Horatio’s from being fused into one, as if they were already comrades or brothers. All that Tomasz saw yet as if saw not…

  But Empty. And though known the fearsomeness of the Affairs to come, though the Son is captivated, all Empty, Empty, so that one prays for Fear, for Dread and craves them as fishes a pond; for more awful than Fear is the Inability to Fear. But we as Dry Stalks, as an Empty Bottle and likewise everything for us as is an Empty Gourd. Ergo, on the third day such Terror overcame me for the very reason of the Want of Terror, that to the Orchard I went and there amidst shrubs that Despair of mine, those Defeats of mine, that Sin of mine contemplating, a nourishing source of Anguish, Woe, I sought to rouse. Ergo spake I: Patria I have lost. But naught, Empty. Spake I: With a Puto I for a Father’s disgrace have companied. But no matter, naught. Say I: Here death, here Disgrace threatens! Yet naught on’t. On a plum tree plums were growing and one I ate, but a Terror stronger still gripped me: viz. that instead of being in Terror, plums I eat. But naught. Empty, as Moss, as Thyme … and Plums on the path I eat, small but tasty, and the sun warms, warms, now yonder Tomasz I saw behind the trees, the which along pathways walked, cogitated, and his Arms raised up, and as if Thunder, as if Thunderclaps called forth … but a plum he picked up, ate … On I go and behind a bush Ignac lies with his eyes drowned in space and perchance his Thought important, Ponderous, as frowning, something weighing within, haply e’en something Resolves … but naught, a plum he ate, and another one. A-buzz were golden flies. I along pathways, lanes walk and plums devour and at Vegetables, fruit look. But someone behind the fence Hisses. I went towards the Fence and there in a meadow a Chaise, in it the Baron, Pyckal and Ciumkala. The Baron holds a whip and the horses are piebald; at me all beckon, whistle.

  Over the fence I clambered. Speak they: “And what news there, what hear you?” Say I: “Praise God, all is well.” Speaks the Baron: “Here in a nearby Estancia we bought these nags. Sit with us, you will see what fast pacers they are.” But I see that Spurs they have on their Boots, ergo speak I: “In a chaise but with Spurs, so surely you are going to ride somewhere.”

  Replied Ciumkala: “Pleasure horses we have tried at the Estancia.”

  Whereupon I sat in the Chaise and then Pyckal thrust a Spur into my calf so that I out of Pain terrible, awful, nigh swooned; and they whip the horses and into the gallop! Here the horses, with a whip lashed, as Maddened speed! Here I out of penetrating Pain can nary a move make as that spur had a hooked point and, once into a body thrust, as Tongs in living flesh, affixed itself. I had so little strength that I just cried to Pyckal: “Move not, move not, it pains!” … and he as an answer Yelled, Howled, as Mad, as Lunatick, as Damned, and his leg violently Twisted. From which Painful Pain so that a flickering in my eyes, and I swooned.

  When I had come to my senses I saw myself in a Cellar by a light from a small window weakly lit. In the first moment I could not even fathom how I came hither, but the sight of the Baron, Pyckal, Ciumkala, who on another bench were sitting, and chiefly the sight of those Spurs awful, Hooked, the which affixed to their boots they had, anon made apparent to me the strangeness of my adventure. Howbeit, I thought that perchance they had been Carousing and for the reason of a Jangle amongst themselves, perchance an older one, this to me they did. Whereupon speak I: “’Slife, men, perchance you are Drunk, say where I am and for what reason you are persecuting me as I beseech, on everything that is holy, that I have no guilt towards you.” As an answer just their Breathing Heavy, Weary I heard and at me with eyes Unseeing they gaze, and said the Baron: “Be silent, for God’s sake, be silent!” Ergo we sit thus, keep silent. Now Ciumkala Moved his leg, thrust his spur into the Baron’s thigh! From the awful pain the Baron yelled out but moves not, fears to move lest the point would go in deeper still… and as caught in a snare, quietly, quietly s
its … then betimes Pyckal shouted and his spur drove into Ciumkala, who in that spur’s snare Blanched and Petrified. And again quietly they Sit.

  Hours were passing in such silent sitting and I did not even dare to take a breath, a-tremble lest one of those Madmen would a Spur shove into me. I cannot reckon how many Thoughts of the wildest kind tormented me, and in those faces, unshaven, sunken, stretched upon the cross as Christ, and likewise with living Hell burning, the most awful judgments I read. But suddenly the door opens and no one else but the old Accomptant, the same Accomptant who taught me how to enter Deeds, the very Accomptant in person, appears! The Accomptant, a good soul! But what a mutation of the Accomptant! Slowly, as a Corpse pale, comes he forth to us, lips twisted, jaws set, eyes dilated, and as an aspen Trembles … yet not less the Baron’s, Pyckal’s and Ciumkala’s trembling, not less their stiffening as in death! A spur he had to his boot fastened and, having come forth, right beside me stopped and whilst no one says a word, whilst breath they nigh seal, I as a Corpse speak naught, breathe not, sit.

  Ergo perchance three or four hours we Sat in this way, one next to another, with no movement, with no sound, and something there Amongst Us was growing, growing, growing and, when it perchance up to the Heavens had grown, when larger, stronger than the World it had become, the Accomptant into me his Spur swish-swish! Into the calf he thrust! Upon which I to the ground fell in Pain most awful and penetrating… and he Cried out, clutched his head. On the ground lying and feeling that hooked blade the which in a Snare had caught me, I moved not at all lest to multiply Pain by Pain. And again the silence came on and perchance two or three hours lasted. In the end the Accomptant sighed deeply and very softly said: