Bacacay (27 page)
Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz
And I closely observed the play of elements, the tragicomedy of life—how my wife acted upon the maid, and how the maid acted upon my wife, and how in this encounter both wife and maid manifested themselves to the full.
To begin with my wife would say
nothing more than: “Oh!”
And I could see that at the thudding of the maid’s footsteps she quaked like a leaf; but on my account she was prepared to put up with a great deal.
Along with her trunk the maid brought into our apartment her own affairs, in other words vermin, toothache, chills, picking her fingers, lots of crying, lots of laughing, lots of laundry; it all started to spread around the apartment, and my wife compressed her lips ever more, leaving only the tiniest crack.
Of course, the process of instructing the maid commenced at once; to the side, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that this took on ever crueler forms and eventually became a kind of leveling of the terrain.
The maid writhed as if burned by red-hot iron; she couldn’t take a single step that was in accordance with her own nature.
And my wife was unremitting—deep within her grew the spirit of strangulation, of hatred, the more so because I too was slightly hateful off to the side, though I could not have explained why or to what purpose.
And I watched with narrow-eyed amazement as before my wife there arose primitive powers, truly different than Majola soap, and a vicious and prehistoric battle raged.
To begin with my wife would say
nothing more than: “Oh!”
And I could see that at the thudding of the maid’s footsteps she quaked like a leaf; but on my account she was prepared to put up with a great deal.
Along with her trunk the maid brought into our apartment her own affairs, in other words vermin, toothache, chills, picking her fingers, lots of crying, lots of laughing, lots of laundry; it all started to spread around the apartment, and my wife compressed her lips ever more, leaving only the tiniest crack.
Of course, the process of instructing the maid commenced at once; to the side, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that this took on ever crueler forms and eventually became a kind of leveling of the terrain.
The maid writhed as if burned by red-hot iron; she couldn’t take a single step that was in accordance with her own nature.
And my wife was unremitting—deep within her grew the spirit of strangulation, of hatred, the more so because I too was slightly hateful off to the side, though I could not have explained why or to what purpose.
And I watched with narrow-eyed amazement as before my wife there arose primitive powers, truly different than Majola soap, and a vicious and prehistoric battle raged.
It turned out that among other things the maid had a rumbling stomach.
My wife gave her medicine, but nothing helped: from her stomach a mysterious, chasmic growling emanated continuously; the dark chasm still called out.
My wife ordered a restricted diet, forbidding her anything that could provoke such a din; in the end she shouted:
My wife gave her medicine, but nothing helped: from her stomach a mysterious, chasmic growling emanated continuously; the dark chasm still called out.
My wife ordered a restricted diet, forbidding her anything that could provoke such a din; in the end she shouted:
“I’ll throw you out, Czesia, if you don’t stop this once and for all!”
The maid took fright and from that moment rumbled twice as loud from fear—while my wife, pallid and exasperated, and seeing that nothing could be done, pretended that she couldn’t hear.
She was given away only by a slight trembling of her eyelids.
She was given away only by a slight trembling of her eyelids.
“Czesia,” my wife declared, “I demand that you bathe once a week, on Saturdays; and Czesia, you need to scrub well with brush and soap!”
A few weeks later my wife crept up on tiptoe and peeped quietly through the keyhole.
Czesia was standing fully clothed by the bathtub, splashing the water about with a thermometer, while the soap and brush lay to one side, untouched and dry.
And once again there was shouting.
And the constant vexation imperceptibly turned my wife into one of those sour, implacable mistresses from the courtyards—it was enough to scare me—she shouted like a furious magpie at the boyfriend who came to see the maid in the evenings, and asked:
Czesia was standing fully clothed by the bathtub, splashing the water about with a thermometer, while the soap and brush lay to one side, untouched and dry.
And once again there was shouting.
And the constant vexation imperceptibly turned my wife into one of those sour, implacable mistresses from the courtyards—it was enough to scare me—she shouted like a furious magpie at the boyfriend who came to see the maid in the evenings, and asked:
“What are you after?
Be off with you!
You’re not needed here!
I won’t allow anyone to sit here!
Off you go!
This minute!
And don’t come back!”
She was exactly, exactly like one of those strict mistresses from the courtyards!
Be off with you!
You’re not needed here!
I won’t allow anyone to sit here!
Off you go!
This minute!
And don’t come back!”
She was exactly, exactly like one of those strict mistresses from the courtyards!
I watched everything, all these bizarre transformations, in what was in fact a cataleptic state, drawing patterns with my fork on the tablecloth for hours on end.
What could be done—there was no turning back now; I could only sum things up, settle accounts—and perhaps listen one last time to the sweet, sinful whisper of youth.
Ancient, long-forgotten stories, ancient shame and ancient hatred tapped at me the way a woodpecker hammers at frozen,
leafless trees in wintertime; they beckoned to me from around the corner with a fleshy, unsightly finger.
Oh, how impoverished I was at present, how washed into gravel by constant streams of water; what on earth had become of the fear, the apprehension, the shame and the embarrassment ?
Just a moment—I broke off these painful questions—could it be that I had wasted my life?
Was only sin, only dirt profound?
Did profundity lie beneath a dirty fingernail?
And I wrote absently with my finger on the window pane: “Woe betide those who abandon their own dirt for the cleanliness of others; dirt is always one’s own, cleanliness always another’s.”
What could be done—there was no turning back now; I could only sum things up, settle accounts—and perhaps listen one last time to the sweet, sinful whisper of youth.
Ancient, long-forgotten stories, ancient shame and ancient hatred tapped at me the way a woodpecker hammers at frozen,
leafless trees in wintertime; they beckoned to me from around the corner with a fleshy, unsightly finger.
Oh, how impoverished I was at present, how washed into gravel by constant streams of water; what on earth had become of the fear, the apprehension, the shame and the embarrassment ?
Just a moment—I broke off these painful questions—could it be that I had wasted my life?
Was only sin, only dirt profound?
Did profundity lie beneath a dirty fingernail?
And I wrote absently with my finger on the window pane: “Woe betide those who abandon their own dirt for the cleanliness of others; dirt is always one’s own, cleanliness always another’s.”
And I thought perfunctorily of hazy matters: that a maid of all work is made up of a certain amount of ugliness and dirt; that if this dirt and ugliness were taken away, she would no longer be a maid of all work.
But every maid has a boyfriend, and if that boyfriend loves her, then he passionately loves the whole, including the beauty and the ugliness, and so it’s possible to say of the ugliness that it too is loved.
And if it’s loved, then why should it be combated?
And I thought further that if someone loves only beauty and cleanliness, then they love only half of a being.
And then I began to daydream unconnectedly—it mustn’t be forgotten that my mind was deteriorating—I dreamed of little birds, lace, nuts, and a huge derisive moon rising over the earth.
Boldness pokes fun at abject bashfulness—a fine, beautiful, triumphant leg ridicules a lugubrious, antediluvian leg.
Someone once said that life is boldness.
No: Boldness is slow death, whereas life is apprehensive bashfulness.
Whoever loves a monstrous maid is alive; whereas he who favors a traditional beauty will gradually wither away.
But every maid has a boyfriend, and if that boyfriend loves her, then he passionately loves the whole, including the beauty and the ugliness, and so it’s possible to say of the ugliness that it too is loved.
And if it’s loved, then why should it be combated?
And I thought further that if someone loves only beauty and cleanliness, then they love only half of a being.
And then I began to daydream unconnectedly—it mustn’t be forgotten that my mind was deteriorating—I dreamed of little birds, lace, nuts, and a huge derisive moon rising over the earth.
Boldness pokes fun at abject bashfulness—a fine, beautiful, triumphant leg ridicules a lugubrious, antediluvian leg.
Someone once said that life is boldness.
No: Boldness is slow death, whereas life is apprehensive bashfulness.
Whoever loves a monstrous maid is alive; whereas he who favors a traditional beauty will gradually wither away.
“Czesia,” I said one day to the maid, “the mistress says that you’re awfully shrill.
The mistress says it gives her a migraine.”
The mistress says it gives her a migraine.”
The maid groaned:
“The mistress doesn’t think a maid is a human being!”
Then I asked:
“Czesia, is it true what the mistress says, that when you cross a room the Dresden china on the shelves rattles as if it were about to shatter?”
Czesia said gloomily:
“Everything bothers the mistress.”
I replied:
“The mistress is opposed to maids!
She’s against you, Czesia, and also against the others in our courtyard.
The mistress thinks they’re too loud, that their chattering and prattling is too vulgar—it makes her ears ache—and on top of that they spread all kinds of diseases.
And another thing the mistress doesn’t like is that every maid is a thief—that gives the mistress a migraine.
And according to the mistress the boyfriends also steal things and spread various diseases.”
She’s against you, Czesia, and also against the others in our courtyard.
The mistress thinks they’re too loud, that their chattering and prattling is too vulgar—it makes her ears ache—and on top of that they spread all kinds of diseases.
And another thing the mistress doesn’t like is that every maid is a thief—that gives the mistress a migraine.
And according to the mistress the boyfriends also steal things and spread various diseases.”
Once I had said this I fell silent, as if I’d said nothing at all—and, as always when I came home from the ministry, I read the papers.
Before long my wife came to speak to me about dismissing the maid.
Before long my wife came to speak to me about dismissing the maid.
“Of late,” she said, “she’s grown impudent; she scowls, and furthermore she’s always out on the steps jabbering with the other maids.
Once, when I went in the kitchen there were as many as four of them sitting there.
In the courtyard she stands and gossips with the concierge.
I believe it’s high time to let her go.”
Once, when I went in the kitchen there were as many as four of them sitting there.
In the courtyard she stands and gossips with the concierge.
I believe it’s high time to let her go.”
I replied:
“Oh, let her stay on a while.
She’s talkative, but honest.
She doesn’t steal.”
She’s talkative, but honest.
She doesn’t steal.”
But my wife started to act terribly, I would say disproportionately, upset.
“Czesia, why were you laughing with the concierge’s wife today?”
“It was nothing; we was just nattering.”
“There’s nothing to laugh at, my dear Czesia,” said my wife sourly.
“You probably think that you’re quite clever.”
“You probably think that you’re quite clever.”
I don’t know what to ascribe it to, but my wife’s nerves utterly refused to obey her.
She came to me all set to create a scene: a moment ago she had gone out on the balcony, and the maid from across the way had said something to their cook; the two of them had looked at her and had burst out laughing; she wanted me to go and give them a talking-to.
I stuck my head out of the window and cried:
She came to me all set to create a scene: a moment ago she had gone out on the balcony, and the maid from across the way had said something to their cook; the two of them had looked at her and had burst out laughing; she wanted me to go and give them a talking-to.
I stuck my head out of the window and cried:
“What’s all this laughter!
If you please!
What’s all this foolish laughter!”
If you please!
What’s all this foolish laughter!”
But it truly seemed as if my wife was developing a persecution complex.
“Tell her she’s fired from the first of the month.
Her insubordination is growing worse.
She’s spreading rumors about us.
I forbade her to associate with the other maids, and today I caught her on the steps snickering with the concierge and the cook from the first floor.
I can’t abide that foolishness of hers!”
Her insubordination is growing worse.
She’s spreading rumors about us.
I forbade her to associate with the other maids, and today I caught her on the steps snickering with the concierge and the cook from the first floor.
I can’t abide that foolishness of hers!”
“You want to sack her right away?
Maybe she’ll improve.”
Maybe she’ll improve.”
“Filip,” said my wife with sudden concern, “I wouldn’t have anything
against rehiring our former maid, the younger one.
Listen,” she added with an effort, “What’s the meaning of this?
Czesia’s laughing at me in this vulgar way behind my back—someone put her up to it—I sense it, I sense it for sure, that the moment I turn my back she makes faces and sticks her tongue out, or follows behind me.
I sense it.”
against rehiring our former maid, the younger one.
Listen,” she added with an effort, “What’s the meaning of this?
Czesia’s laughing at me in this vulgar way behind my back—someone put her up to it—I sense it, I sense it for sure, that the moment I turn my back she makes faces and sticks her tongue out, or follows behind me.
I sense it.”
“I think you must be ill, my treasure.
What could she possibly be laughing at, when there’s nothing laughable about you?”
What could she possibly be laughing at, when there’s nothing laughable about you?”
“How should I know what she’s laughing at?
At foolishness.
Her own, naturally, not mine.
She must have noticed something about me.”
At foolishness.
Her own, naturally, not mine.
She must have noticed something about me.”
“Maybe she’s amused by your manicure, the row of tiny little shining mirrors,” I said pensively, “or maybe the fact that you wipe your nose on a handkerchief.
God alone knows what might amuse an uneducated and uncultured maid.
Maybe she’s amused by your hair lotion?”
God alone knows what might amuse an uneducated and uncultured maid.
Maybe she’s amused by your hair lotion?”
“Stop it!”
she cried.
“I’m not interested!
It’s not just her; the others are laughing too!
Such inane, vulgar laughter!
The insolence!
Go to the landlord!
Their heads have turned!
It’s going to make me ill!”
she cried.
“I’m not interested!
It’s not just her; the others are laughing too!
Such inane, vulgar laughter!
The insolence!
Go to the landlord!
Their heads have turned!
It’s going to make me ill!”
I gave Czesia a dressing-down:
“Czesia, why do you irritate the mistress?
You know how delicate she is; she might easily fall ill!”
You know how delicate she is; she might easily fall ill!”
And I went to complain to the landlord about the disorder prevailing in the building—but the following day someone threw a rotting onion at me from a window.
Indeed—it may have been—I also had the impression that amid the springtime noises of the courtyard I could detect a certain foolishness, a certain vulgarity, a
certain suddenly excited, awful arousability—as if someone had tickled the heel of a mastodon with a feather.
The maid from the back building had apparently had the impertinence to laugh in my wife’s face; some awful drawings had appeared on our front door —Lord, monstrous jokes written in chalk, in which my wife and I featured in monstrous shapes and in a monstrous pose.
On my wife’s orders, the maid wiped these drawings off several times a day—my wife, driven to distraction, even lay in wait in the hallway and rushed out onto the stairs at the slightest rustle, but she was never able to catch anyone red-handed.
All kinds of pranks were played.
Indeed—it may have been—I also had the impression that amid the springtime noises of the courtyard I could detect a certain foolishness, a certain vulgarity, a
certain suddenly excited, awful arousability—as if someone had tickled the heel of a mastodon with a feather.
The maid from the back building had apparently had the impertinence to laugh in my wife’s face; some awful drawings had appeared on our front door —Lord, monstrous jokes written in chalk, in which my wife and I featured in monstrous shapes and in a monstrous pose.
On my wife’s orders, the maid wiped these drawings off several times a day—my wife, driven to distraction, even lay in wait in the hallway and rushed out onto the stairs at the slightest rustle, but she was never able to catch anyone red-handed.
All kinds of pranks were played.
“Police!
Where’s the police?!
Police!
How dare they!
All the maids should be thrown out, and the concierge, and his children!
The concierge’s children are impertinent too!
It’s a mafia!
It’s a plot!
You hear, Czesia?!
Police!
What are you looking at, Czesia?!
I forbid you to look!
Get out!
Get out this second!”
Where’s the police?!
Police!
How dare they!
All the maids should be thrown out, and the concierge, and his children!
The concierge’s children are impertinent too!
It’s a mafia!
It’s a plot!
You hear, Czesia?!
Police!
What are you looking at, Czesia?!
I forbid you to look!
Get out!
Get out this second!”
But this shouting merely stirred up impudence and a terrible, insolent, hidden hatred.
“Filip,” said my wife, shaking with fear, “what is this?
What does it mean?
Some kind of dirt is breeding here; something’s brewing.
There’s something inside me—what do they want of me?
Filip ...”
She looked at me then at once, ashen and extinguished, she crept away into the corner and sat down.
What does it mean?
Some kind of dirt is breeding here; something’s brewing.
There’s something inside me—what do they want of me?
Filip ...”
She looked at me then at once, ashen and extinguished, she crept away into the corner and sat down.
And I remained in my armchair, the newspaper in my hand, a cigarette burning down between my fingers, and thought for a long time.
Doubtless it would have been possible to throw the maid out; we could also have changed apartments, even moved to another neighborhood; we could have—had I not been so feckless,
so trembling and bashful.
My wife asked me, what did this mean.
What did what mean?
For heaven’s sake, who here was laughable, untamed, and monstrous?
If my wife hated the maid, why then, the maid also hated my wife.
I bent over this hatred, took it in trembling hands, and stared at it with the feeble gaze of an old man, listening intently to the insistent voice coming from the kitchen:
Doubtless it would have been possible to throw the maid out; we could also have changed apartments, even moved to another neighborhood; we could have—had I not been so feckless,
so trembling and bashful.
My wife asked me, what did this mean.
What did what mean?
For heaven’s sake, who here was laughable, untamed, and monstrous?
If my wife hated the maid, why then, the maid also hated my wife.
I bent over this hatred, took it in trembling hands, and stared at it with the feeble gaze of an old man, listening intently to the insistent voice coming from the kitchen:
“So I says to the mistress, I says, if I was to tell you all the things they say, I think I’d drop dead first with embarrassment, and you’d burst a blood vessel.”
I listened and said nothing ...
Until my wife took off her wedding ring one day and put it on the dining room table, and I—oh, entirely automatically, after all I was quite lost in thought—I took the ring and slipped it into my pocket.
And later I said to my wife:
And later I said to my wife:
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