Cosmos

by Witold Gombrowicz

  He rose. He took a bow. He intoned.

  “Ite missa est!”

  He took a bow. Sat down. “The point is,” he explained matter-of-factly, “little Leo Wojtys, in his gray life, experienced only one pleasure, I would say, that was perfect . . . and that was twenty-seven years ago with that kitchen maid, from this chalet. Twenty-seven years ago. It’s the anniversary. Well, not quite the anniversary, it’s a month and three days short. So,”—he bent toward me, “they think that I’ve dragged them here to admire the scenery. I brought them here on a pilgrimage to where I and the kitchen maid . . . twenty-seven years ago less one month and three days . . . It’s a pilgrimage. Wife, child, son-in-law, priest, Lukies, Toleks, all of them on a pilgrimage to this rapture of mine, to the berg bergum funfunberg, and I’ll berg them at midnight all the way to the rock where I berged with her berg bergum berg and into berg! Let them participate! Pilgrimageberg raptureberg, ha, ha, they don’t know! You know.”

  He smiled.

  “And you won’t tell!”

  He smiled.

  “Do you bemberg? I too bemberg. We’ll bemberg together!”

  He smiled.

  “Go now, go sir, I must be alone to prepare myself for this holy mass of mine with pious concentration, in solemn recollection and re-creation, a solemn day, a solemn day, hey, the highest solemn day, leave me so that I can purify and prepare myself, by fasting and prayer, for the divine service of my rapture, for the holy fun of my life on that memorable day . . . go, sir! A rivederci!”

  The meadow, trees, mountains, the sky with the sinking sun.

  “And don’t think, sir, that I have a screw loose . . . I’m playing a crazy man to make it easier . . . But in truth I am a monk and a bishop. What time is it?”

  “It’s after six.”

  Of course the “spitting into” was a coincidence, he couldn’t have known that Lena’s mouth was within me, he didn’t know, but nonetheless it’s interesting, the way coincidences happen more often than one would expect, stickiness, the way one thing sticks to another, events, phenomena, they are like those magnetized balls, they search for one another, and when they’re close, pam . . . they unite . . . randomly, as often as not . . . yet, that he had discovered my desire for Lena, well, no wonder, he is no mean expert, but did he hang the sparrow, was the little affair with the arrow, the stick, and perhaps the whiffletree, were they his doing? . . . perhaps . . . yes, he’s the one . . . it’s interesting, extremely interesting, whether it was he, or not he, it’s all the same now, it changes nothing one way or the other, the sparrow and the stick are there . . . with equal power, not weakened in the least, O God, is there nothing one can do? It’s interesting, however, extremely interesting, this coincidental connection we share, this strange meshing together, sometimes almost unequivocal, for example that he too . . . admires trivia, his little affairs seem to dovetail with my own, in that case do we have something in common—but what?—is he somehow accompanying me, pushing me, even abducting me . . . At times I have the clear impression that I’m collaborating with him, as in a difficult childbirth—as if we were giving birth to something—wait, wait, but, on the other hand (on the third? how many hands?) let’s not forget that “selfness,” or “go to your own for your own self . . .”could the key to the puzzle be right here, the key to what is churning, brewing here, oh, this “gratify yourself with yourself ”is rising from him like a wave, and from the priest and from the Toleks—and there is something terribly exhausting about it—and this something is coming toward me like a forest, yes, a forest, we say a “forest,” but what does that mean, how many tiny details, trifles, particles make up a small leaf of a single tree, we say “forest” but this word is made of the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unencompassed. The earth. Clods of dirt. Pebbles. On a clear day you rest among ordinary, everyday things that have been familiar to you since childhood, grass, bushes, a dog (or a cat), a chair, but that changes when you realize that every object is an enormous army, an inexhaustible swarm. I sat on the stump as if on a suitcase, waiting for a train.

  “Tonight is the pilgrimage to the place of this highest and only rapture of mine, twenty-seven years ago, less one month and four days.”I rose. Yet he obviously didn’t want to let me go without giving me the details, and so he was rushing on. “Tonight is the bembergum, celebrated secretly! Views! What views! You are all here to celebrate the celebration of this my Great Turn-On with the kitchen maid, the one I told you about, with the kitchen maid, from the chalet . . . ”he was shouting, I was walking away, the meadow, trees, mountains, shadows like vultures . . .

  I walked, the aromatic grasses, yellowing, reddening with little blooms, the scent, the scent that was and was not like the scent at that time there the little garden the wall Fuks and I approaching along the line, the line of the broomstick, we are approaching, we are at the limits of remoteness after crossing the land of the little white trees tied to their stakes, the wasteland, fallow, weeds and rubble . . . and the smell of urine or something, urine in the heat, the stick that was awaiting us in the sickening and sweltering stench to combine later, not right away, later, with the whiffletree, with the whiffletree, among the pieces of junk in the shed warmed by straps of leather, garbage, the door half-open, and the whiffletree that pushed us toward Katasia’s little room and toward the kitchen, the key, window, ivy, where the various poundings led us to Roly-Poly pounding the tree stump, Lena pounding the table, and this pushed me toward the spruce, branches, the jabbing, boughs, I crawl up, and there is the kettle, kettle, kettle, and the kettle threw me onto the cat . . . the cat, the cat! I and the cat, I with the cat, then, there, brr, swinish business, I’ll throw it off . . . I thought about it softly, sleepily, the meadow was lulling me, I walked slowly, I looked under my feet, I saw the little flowers when suddenly, walking on this level ground, I fell into a trap.

  It was a trap made of nothing, it was stupid . . . Two small stones appeared in front of me, one to the right, one to the left, and slightly farther to the left, a coffee-colored patch of soil stood out where ants had pushed up a mound of loose dirt, farther on to the left there was a big root, black, rotten—everything in a line, concealed in the sun, burrowed in the glare, hidden in the light—I was about to walk between the stones, but at the last moment I veered slightly to walk between the stone and the loosened dirt, the deviation was minimal, just a bit, a bit, I could have gone either way . . . and yet the tiny deviation was unjustified and this, I think, disconcerted me . . . so I mechanically veered again, to walk where I had first wanted to, between the stones, but then I encountered an impediment, it was so slight and originated from the fact that after veering twice, my intention to walk between the two stones had already acquired the character of a decision, a small one of course, but a decision nonetheless. This was unjustified, because the perfect indifference of those things in the grass did not entitle me to make a decision, what’s the difference whether I go this way or that way, the valley, put to sleep by the forests, numb, was after all like fish dying or the buzzing of a fly, dazed, embalmed. Tranquility. Engrossment, reverie, enraptured listening. I therefore decide to cross between the stones . . . yet the decision became, since the couple of seconds that had just passed, more of a decision, yet how is one to decide when it all comes to the same thing . . . so I hold myself back again. And, infuriated, I move my leg forward again to cross as I had wanted to, between the stone and the loosened mound of dirt, but I realize that if I walk between the stone and the mound after starting three times, it will no longer be a simple crossing but something more serious . . . so I choose the way between the root and the mound . . . yet I become aware that this would be as if I had been frightened, so I again want to cross between the stone and the mound of dirt, but, to hell with it, what’s happening, what is this, I surely won’t keep standing here on this level ground, what is this, am I fighting demons, O living God! . . . What is this? What is this? A sun-warmed, sweet sleep wreathed the herbs, the flowers, the mountain
s, not a single blade budged. I did not move. I stood. But my standing was becoming increasingly irresponsible, even insane, I had no right to stand, this is IMPOSSIBLE, I HAVE TO GO . . . yet I stood. And then, in this immobility, my immobility became identified with the immobility of the bird, there, in the bushes, with the immobility of the arrangement back there, which was motionlessly made motionless by the bird—stick—cat, with that lifeless, unceasing arrangement, where immobility was mounting, just as I was mounting here, on the meadow, in my growing immobility, unable to move . . . Then I moved. Suddenly I knocked off everything inside me, all that inability, and I smoothly crossed, not even realizing which way, because it had no significance, and I thought about something else, that here the sun sets early, because of the mountains. Actually the sun was already low. I walked across the meadow toward the house, whistling, I lit a cigarette, and all that remained, like some unsettled sediment, was a pale remembrance of this affair. Here was the house. No one. Windows, doors, wide open, deserted, I lay down in our room, rested, when I came down again Roly-Poly was puttering in the alcove.

  “Where is everybody?”I asked.

  “Out for a walk. Would you like some mulled wine?”

  She poured some for me, silence ensued—sad, or weary, or resigned —neither of us concealed the fact that we either don’t want to, or can’t, talk. I slowly sipped the mulled wine, she rested against the windowsill, looked through the window, gazed like someone who had come to a stop after a long march.“Mr. Witol,” she said, dropping the “d” at the end of my name, which befell her at times of anxiety, “have you ever seen anything like that hussy? Not even to leave a clergyman alone! What do they think, that I’m the madam in a brothel?!”she exclaimed, in a frenzy. “I won’t have it! I’ll teach them how to behave when they’re my guests! And that dandy in knickers is even worse, the world is a horror-show, Mr. Witol, if she would just flirt on her own, but no, they go on the make together, has anyone seen a husband and wife put the make on another man, incredible, he’s actually pushing her onto his lap, it’s outrageous for a husband to be pushing his own wife onto another man’s lap, and during their honeymoon at that, I can’t get it through my head that my daughter has such girlfriends, no discipline, no education, and everything out of spite toward Venomie, they’re determined to spoil her honeymoon, Mr. Witol, I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen anything like it, I won’t tolerate such whoring about.”

  She asked:

  “Have you seen Leon?”

  “Yes, I met up with him a little while ago, he was sitting on a stump . . . ”

  I was slowly finishing the wine, and I wanted to say something more, but neither she nor I was up to it, a debility, why talk, indeed we were . . . too far . . . over hills, over dales . . . we were . . . we were somewhere else . . .

  And this feeling too was touched by a lack or absence, as if unfelt . . . I put my glass aside, I said something or other, walked away.

  Again I walked across the meadow, but this time in the opposite direction—I was looking for them. My hands in my pockets, head down, pondering deeply but without a single thought—as if someone had taken them away. The dale-vale with its plumes of trees, with its mantle of forests, with humps of mountains, was reaching me mostly from behind, like a rumble, like the roar of a distant cascade, like an event from the Old Testament, or the light of a star. Ahead of me innumerable grasses. I raised my head—lulu-like giggles reached my ears—the company spilled out from behind the trees, eh Lukie, we are thick as thieves, Lulu, let go or I’ll poke you, blouses, scarves, hankies, knickers, a disorderly bunch, walking, and when they saw me they began waving, I too was waving.

  “Where have you been? Did you get lost or something? We went all the way to the hill . . . ”I joined them and walked with them straight into the sun, which, however, was no longer there—it left behind one great nothing, a kind of sunny vacuum marked by intensified glare gleaming from behind a mountain as if from a hidden spring—blazing the purple sky, inwardly radiant, but not giving itself to the earth. I looked around, everything here below had changed, though it was still light—but a germ of indifference appeared, a crowding and abandoning, something like turning the key in a lock, and the mountains, hills, trees, stones were solely unto themselves and signifying their end. Meanwhile the cheerfulness of our little group was cacophonous . . . a sound like that of a cracked windowpane, no one walked with anyone else, everyone separately, the Lulus to one side, she went first, he behind her, with their little faces, yet a little stinger protruded from their cute little faces . . . The hub consisted of Lena with Ludwik and Fuks, a bit farther was Tolek with Venomie, behind them the priest—all scattered. I thought there were too many of them. What’s to be done with them all, I thought anxiously?

  . . . and Fuks surprised me, jumping up and down, delighted, shouting: “Mrs. Lena, please come to my rescue!”While Lulu: “Lena, stop helping him, he’s not on a honeymoon!”And Fuks: “I’m always on a honeymoon, it’s always honeymoon month for me!”Lukie: “Why is he talking about his monthlies, my ears are turning red!”

  Lena, laughing just a little . . .

  Oh, the honey . . . the sticky honeymoon honey of the three couples . . . changing on Venomie’s part into her own “homemade” hone y, or “uniquely her own,” like certain scents, because indeed “when she smells herself it doesn’t bother her,” and she doesn’t bathe at all, why should she, and even if she did bathe, it would be in all seriousness, for herself, for the sake of hygiene, not for anyone else. The Lulus were attacking Fuks, but of course they had Venomie in mind, he was just a billiard cushion . . . he knew it, but, thrilled that someone was finally pelting him with little jokes, he almost danced in carroty ecstasy, he, Drozdowski’s quarry, was now fawning up to them in his wretched joy. While he danced to one side, an innate, disgusting silence kneaded itself on the Toleks’ side. At my feet the grass—the grass—consisting of stalks and blades whose individual positions—twists, slants, bends, desolations, crunches, desiccations—loomed before me, flashing, escaping, absorbed as they were by the totality of the grass that breathlessly stretched all the way to the mountains, but already under lock and key, dejected, condemned to itself . . .

  We walked slowly. Fuks’s laughter was more idiotic than the Lulus’ giggles! His idiocy, the unexpected crescendo of his idiocy puzzled me, but the honey puzzled me even more. Honey was on the rise. It began with the “honeymoon.”But now “honey” (thanks to Venomie) was becoming more and more “self-gratifying”. . . more disgusting . . . To which the priest also contributed . . . with his fingers fumbling . . .

  This love-honey, albeit somewhat disgusting, it too had some connection with me. Connections, indeed. Stop connecting—associating—.

  Our steps, unhurried, trudging along, led us to an idyllic little stream. Fuks ran up to it, spotted the best place to cross and shouted “this way.”The absence of light penetrated farther and farther into the light that was framed by the forests on the mountain slopes. Lulu called out: “Lukie, have pity on my little shoes, carry me piggy-back, carry me over! Oh oh!”

  To which Lukie insolently replied:“Tolek, sir, you carry her over!”

  Since Tolek merely coughed, Lukie wiggled his little hips and added with a schoolgirl’s cherubic solemnity:“Upon my word, do me a favor, I’m exhausted, I’m dead on my feet!”

  The situation developed as follows: Lulu exclaimed to Lukie: “you’re mean!”She ran up to Tolek, almost dancing, “Mr. Tolek, poor me, my husband has deserted me, have pity on my little shoes!”And she put out her little leg. Lukie: “On my word, Mr. Tolek, one, two, three, what will be will be!”Lulu: “One, two, three!”And she went on pleading to be in his arms. Lukie: “Onward, what will be will be. One, two, three!”

  I didn’t watch this too closely, absorbed as I was by the surroundings, by what surrounded and entwined us, at least by the weight of the mountains that from a distance enveloped and clasped us almost sternly, having themselves turned gra
ve with the forests’ reeling and caving in (though high above us there was brightness—yet set apart). In spite of it, I was able to see that the Lukies are dancing a war dance, the cavalryman does nothing, Fuks is in seventh heaven, Ludwik nothing, the priest stands still, Lena . . . why did I spoil her for myself at that time, that first night, in the hallway, with Katasia’s lip, and why, instead of forgetting it the next day, did I return to it, fixing it in my memory? . . . I was curious about one thing, one thing alone interested me, whether the association was merely a whim on my part, or was there really some connection between her mouth and the lip that I subconsciously sensed—but what sort? What sort?

  An imperious whim? An act of capricious license? No. I did not feel guilty. It was happening to me, but it wasn’t my doing . . .Not at all, why would I have made her more disgusting for myself, when, without her, my life could no longer be harmonious, fresh, alive, only dead, rotten, unnatural, made loathsome without her as she stood here with her charms that I’d rather not be watching. No, it’s not that I couldn’t love her because of the swinish association with Katasia, that’s not the point, it was even worse, I didn’t want to love her, I didn’t feel like it, and I didn’t feel like it because it was as if I had a rash on my body and if, having a rash, I were to glimpse the most wonderful Venus, I also wouldn’t feel like it. And I wouldn’t even look at her. I didn’t feel well, so I didn’t feel like it . . .Wait a minute . . . wait a minute . . . so was I the disgusting one, not she? So I was the one who perpetrated the disgust, it was my doing. I won’t find out. I’ll never guess . . . But wait, wait, “lift her up,” Lukie’s calves in patterned socks, “lift her, Mr. Tolek, in good fellowship, you are on a honeymoon too!”. . .

  And Venomie’s voice, deep, from the fullness of her breast, trusting, noble!

  “Tolek, please, carry the lady over!”

  I looked. Tolek was already placing Lulu on the grass on the other bank of the little stream, end of the affair, we’re walking again, walking slowly on the grass, honey, why honey, honey and the priest’s fingers, I walked, as one walks in the night, through a forest where rustles and shadows and shapes, dispersing, mysterious, yet also merging painfully, press hard and encircle at the very edge of a leap and an assault . . . and Leon, what about Leon with his bemberging into the berg? How long will this lurk and circle around us? Where will the beast spring from? On this meadow, surrounded by mountains moving mutely into forsaking and deserting, heaping large deposits of invisibility, clusters of nonexistence, citadels of blindness and muteness, on the meadow a house appeared from behind the trees, it was not home and it existed only because it was not . . . it was not the other one, there, with the system of configurations that contained within itself the hanged bird—the hanging stick—the strangled-hanged-buried cat, where everything was under the supervision and care of Katasia’s “affected” mouth that happened perhaps to be in the kitchen, perhaps in the little garden, perhaps on the porch.