A FEAST AT COUNTESS VON DOFF'S

by Witold Gombrowicz

Translated from the Polish by Christopher Makosa
 

      It's difficult to state with absolute certainty how I established my cordial relations with Countess von Doff. Naturally, by cordial relations I mean the slight degree of closeness which may exist between a socialite, pureblooded and aristocratic down to her last dainty little bone, and a person that is respectable and dignified - but of only middle-class origins. I flatter myself that I may have won the affections of the discriminating Countess due to a certain nobility, which I occasionally manage to show in favorable circumstances, as well as my penetrating insight and a certain sense of idealism. In fact, ever inclined toward the sublime, I've been a thinking reed [25] at heart since childhood and I often spend endless hours contemplating beautiful and lofty matters.
      I suppose that due to my detached curiosity, my nobility of thought, my romantic, aristocratic and idealistic cast of mind, which is somewhat old-fashioned nowadays, I gained access to the Countess' petit fours and to her remarkable Friday dinners. Indeed, the Countess was a high-minded woman: devout on one side and artistic on the other, she acted as patron of charity fairs and at the same time paid homage to the Muses. Her numerous acts of compassion compelled admiration; her charitable tea parties and artistic five-o'clock receptions, at which she appeared as some de Médicis [26], were much renowned; and the smallest salon of her palace, in which the Countess received only a select circle of truly dear and trusted guests, was alluring in its exclusivity.
      But most famous of all were meatless Friday dinners at the Countess'. As she herself put it, these dinners were a welcome break from her daily charity work; they served as a kind of holiday and retreat. "I want to have something for myself too," said the Countess with a wistful smile, inviting me for the first time to one of those dinners two months ago. "Do come to see me on Friday. There'll be some singing, music, some of my closest friends - and you too... and obviously on Friday, so as to avoid any thought of meat," she winced slightly, "that meat you're constantly eating and that blood. Too much meat! Too much meat fume! You people see no happiness beyond a bloody beefsteak - you run away from fasting - you would constantly devour disgusting meat scraps all day long." "I'm throwing down the gauntlet," she added, slightly squinting, meaningful and symbolic as ever. "I want to prove that a fast is not a diet, but a feast for the soul." What an honor, to be among the ten or, at the most, fifteen people, who have had the rare distinction of being invited to meatless dinners at the Countess'!
      I've always been drawn to and mesmerized by the world of fashionable society, not to mention the world of those dinners. It appeared that, deep down inside, Countess von Doff intended to dig new Holy Trinity trenches to resist the onslaught of present-day barbarism (after all, the blood of the Krasinskis flowed in her veins) [27]. It seemed that she was deeply convinced that born aristocrats were not only predestined to add outward luster to parties and receptions, but in every area, also spiritual and artistic, they could secure self-sufficiency for themselves on the strength of their superior breeding - and, therefore, an aristocratic salon sufficed in every respect to create a truly sublime salon. This thought, though archaic and somewhat pitiful, was remarkably daring and profound in its venerable archaic nature; it was the kind of thought one could definitely expect from a descendent of doughty field marshals. And indeed, when at table, in an antique dining room, far away from carcasses, carnage and a billion slaughtered cattle, representatives of the oldest families revived Plato's symposia under the leadership of the Countess, the spirit of poetry and philosophy seemed to float amid the crystal chandeliers and flowers, while enchanted words fell into verse of their own accord.
      For example, there was a certain prince who, at the request of the Countess, assumed the role of intellectual and philosopher - and he did so in such a princely manner and expressed such beautiful and noble ideas that a humiliated Plato would probably have stationed himself with a napkin behind the prince's chair to exchange platters. There was a baroness, who undertook to grace these gatherings by singing, even though she had never taken any singing lessons before - and I doubt that Ada Sari [28] would have produced such glorious tone under the circumstances. There was something too wonderful for words, wonderfully vegetarian - luxuriously vegetarian, I might add - in the gastronomic moderation of those receptions; and those immensely rich magnates, bent modestly over a dish of kohlrabi, made an unforgettable impression, especially in view of the frightfully carnivorous habits of the present day. It even seemed that our teeth - the teeth of rodents - lost their mark of Cain there... [29] As for the food, without doubt the vegetarian cuisine of the Countess was unequalled: the flavor of her tomatoes stuffed with rice was remarkably rich, and her omelets with asparagus were phenomenal with regard to firmness and aroma.
      Since I was again honored with an invitation after several months, the Friday in question I hailed a modest hackney carriage and, feeling understandably apprehensive, drew up in front of the ancient facade of a palace located just outside of Warsaw. But instead of the fifteen or so guests I had expected to find there, I saw only two people, who seemed none too remarkable at that: a toothless old marchioness, who indulged in vegetables out of necessity every day of the week, and a certain baron of a somewhat dubious family - i.e. Baron de Apfelbaum - who compensated for a dearth of ancestors and a disastrous nose with his millions and his mother née Princess Filidumski. Moreover, right at the outset I sensed an almost indiscernible dissonance... as if something were out of tune... and, what's more, the soup made from pumpkin stuffed with pâté - spécialité de la maison [30]- sweet pumpkin soup, stewed until tender and served as the first course, proved unexpectedly meager, watery and without substance. Despite that, I didn't show the least surprise or disappointment (such behavior would have been acceptable everywhere else, but not at Countess von Doff's). Instead, my face radiant and blissful, I ventured a compliment:
 

Such exquisite soup -
And without a corpse or crime
[an event deserving of a truly brilliant rhyme.]

      As I said before, rhymed poetry during Friday receptions at the Countess' rose to our lips of its own accord as a result of the exceptional harmony and sparkle of those gatherings - it would have been quite inappropriate not to embellish stretches of prose with rhymes. Suddenly - my horror! - Baron de Apfelbaum who, as an exceedingly delicate poet and fastidious gourmet, was doubly enamored of the inspired cuisine of our hostess, stooped close toward me and whispered in my ear with an ill-concealed repulsion and anger, which I would never have expected from him:
 

This soup would've been first-class
Had the cook not proved an...

      Astounded by this prank, I coughed. What did he mean? Luckily, the Baron came to his senses at the last moment. What had happened since my previous visit? The dinner seemed but a lame excuse for the real thing, the food was poor and the guests were down in the mouth. After the soup, the main course was served: a platter of sparse and meager carrot in roux. I admired the spiritual strength of the Countess! Pale, wearing a black evening gown studded with hereditary diamonds, she consumed the insipid dish with a tremendous courage, making the others follow in her footsteps - and with her usual skill she sent the conversation soaring toward the clouds. Waving a napkin, she broached the subject gracefully, though with a touch of melancholy:
 

Let profound ideas flow!
What is Beauty - do you know?

      Putting on airs in moderation and flaunting my tailcoat's front, I replied immediately:
 

Love is most beautiful of all, no doubt,
Something we cannot shine without -
We, the winged breed which neither sows nor plows -
Sheep of God in dress coats and resplendent evening gowns.

      The Countess thanked me with a smile for the immaculate beauty of this thought. The Baron, like a thoroughbred overcome by the spirit of noble rivalry, joined the fray; and tapping his fingers, spewing sparks from precious stones and spraying the air with rhymes (the art of which he alone possessed), he remarked:
 

A beautiful rose
Beautifully grows (etc.)
But compassion is more beautiful.
Do look out the window!
Outside it's still raining so!
For three days now it's been nasty, windy, cold -
Oh, the misery of the poor and of the old!
Yes, a tear of compassion, that shower of pity -
This is the secret of Beauty and nobility!

"Point well taken, dear sir," said the toothless Marchioness, lisping with delight. "Marvelous! Compassion! St. Francis of Assisi! I also have my poor babies - little children suffering from rickets, to whom I dedicated the whole of my toothless old age! We should always remember the poor, the unfortunate..."
"Prisoners and the disabled, who can't afford to buy artificial limbs," added the Baron.
"Haggard, skinny, retired old schoolmistresses," said the Countess with compassion.
"Hairdressers with varicose veins and famished miners suffering from sciatica,"
I added, overcome with emotion.
"Yes," said the Countess, and her eye sparkled and plunged into the far-off distance. "Yes! Love and Compassion, those two flowers - roses de thé - the tea roses of life... But we shouldn't forget our duties toward ourselves either!" Then she reflected for a while and, paraphrasing Prince Józef Poniatowski's famous saying, said: "God has entrusted me with Maria von Doff - and I shall return her only to Him!" [31]
 

Transports of emotion, ideals I should proclaim -
An everlasting flame!

"Bravo! Incomparable! What a thought! Profound! Wise! Proud!" God has entrusted me with Maria von Doff - and I shall return her only to Him!" all exclaimed, while I (considering that Prince Józef Poniatowski was under discussion) allowed myself to gently strike the note of patriotism:
 

The White Eagle - always remember that name! [32]

      The footmen brought in an enormous cauliflower, which was basted with fresh butter and deliciously browned. Alas, it was fair to assume on the basis of previous events that the cauliflower's color was as sickly as a consumptive's complexion. This is how a conversation at the Countess' flowed and what a great feast it was even in such adverse culinary circumstances. I flatter myself that my statement about Love being most beautiful of all was not too superficial. I even suppose that it could be the gem of many a philosophical poem. However, right away another guest, bidding in plus, contributes an aphorism about Compassion being even more beautiful than Love. Splendid! And true! Come to think of it, Compassion has wider scope and covers more ground than lofty Love. But that's not all: afraid that we might melt away into Love and Compassion without a trace, the Countess, our wise Amphitryon [33], mentions lofty duties toward ourselves; and then I, discreetly taking advantage of the final rhyme ending in "-ame," add only one thing: "The White Eagle - always remember that name!" What's more, the form, the manners, the mode of expression and the noble and refined moderation of the feast vie with the content! "No!" I thought delighted. "Those who never attended a Friday reception at the Countess' simply don't know aristocrats!"
"Excellent cauliflower," the Baron-cum-gourmet-cum-poet suddenly murmured with an agreeable disappointment in his voice.
"Indeed," the Countess concurred, watching the plate suspiciously. As for me, I didn't detect any outstanding quality in the cauliflower's flavor; I found it as bland as the previous dishes.
"Could it be Philip?" asked the Countess, lightening flashing in her eyes.
"This matter should be investigated!" said the Marchioness distrustfully.
"Find Philip!" ordered the Countess.
"There is no reason why we should hide anything from you, my dear friend," said Baron de Apfelbaum, and explained to me in a low voice tinged with a concealed irritation what it was all about. And so, on Friday before last, the Countess had accidentally caught Philip the cook seasoning the main dish of the feast with bullion and meat flavors! What a scoundrel! I couldn't believe it! Really, only a cook could do a thing like that! Worse still, the defiant wretch apparently remained unrepentant and even had the temerity to defend himself by asserting that "he wanted the dinner guests to have their cake and eat it too." What did he mean? (Rumor had it that he used to be in a bishop's employ) He vowed to refrain from such disgraceful acts only after the Countess threatened to have him immediately dismissed! "What a dunce!" the Baron summed up his story with anger. "What a dunce! He let himself get caught! That's why most guests, as you see, stayed away today, and... hmm... really, were it not for this cauliflower, I'm afraid I would say they did the right thing."
"No," said the toothless Marchioness, chewing the vegetable, "no, this isn't the flavor of meat... munch-munch....this isn't the flavor of meat, but...comment dirais-je [34]- it's extremely stimulating - it must have plenty of vitamins."
"Somewhat peppery," remarked the Baron, taking a second helping discreetly. "Slightly peppery - munch-munch - but without meat," he added hurriedly. "Distinctly vegetarian, peppery and cauliflower-like. You can rely on my palate, dear Countess: in matters of taste, I'm another Pythia!" [35]
      But the Countess didn't calm down until the cook appeared - a tall thin individual with reddish hair and a sidelong glance - and swore on the shade of his departed wife that the cauliflower was pure and unblemished.
"That's cooks for you!" I said with an air of sympathy and also took a second helping of that remarkably popular dish (though I still couldn't detect any outstanding quality in it). "Oh, you should keep an eye on cooks!" (I wasn't sure if my remarks were sufficiently tactful, but I was bubbling with an excitement that was light as champagne froth) "A cook with that cap of his and that white apron!"
"Philip seems so well-meaning," said the Countess with an undertone of sorrow and mute reproach, reaching for the butter dish.
"Well-meaning, well-meaning - certainly..." I said, clinging to my opinion with what was probably a superfluous stubbornness. "But then, a cook ... mind you, is a commoner, homo vulgaris, whose task it is to make exquisite, delicate dishes - there is a certain dangerous paradox in this. The boor prepares choice delicacies - what on earth is that supposed to mean?"
"Remarkable aroma!" declared the Countess. She inhaled the cauliflower's flavor (which I couldn't smell) with dilated nostrils without putting down the fork, which was flashing briskly.
"Remarkable!" echoed the banker and tied a napkin around his shirtfront, so as not to become sullied by the butter. "Just a little bit more, if I may ask, dear Countess. Really, I'm coming to life again after this... hmm... thin soup ...munch-munch. True, cooks can't be trusted. I once hired a cook who could prepare Italian pasta like no one else: I virtually couldn't get enough of it! And - just imagine - one day I step into the kitchen and see my pasta swarming in a pot - literally swarming! - and it was earthworms, munch-munch - earthworms from my own garden, which the blackguard served as pasta! I've never looked - munch-munch - into pots ever since!"
"That's right," I said. "Exactly!" I went on to talk about cooks being butchers and small-time murderers. I argued that they didn't care about anything at all; that all they could do was pepper, season and prepare - and even though my remarks were quite inappropriate and even downright offensive, I couldn't stop talking. "Although you'd never even touch the cook, dear Countess, you eat his hair... in soup!" I would have continued in this vein, for unexpectedly I was seized by a fit of some treacherous eloquence, but suddenly I broke off because nobody was listening to me! I was frightened and astonished by the unusual sight of the Countess, i.e. our patronessa and dogaressa [36], who was devouring the food in silence and so greedily that her ears shook. The Baron, bent over his plate, was bravely trying to emulate her, slurping and smacking his lips with gusto - and the old Marchioness was doing her best to stay the pace, chewing and swallowing huge chunks, for she was obviously afraid that somebody might grab the choicest morsels from under her nose!
      This incredible and unexpected sight of gobbling - I can't put it any differently - of such gobbling and in such a household; this awful leap; this diminished-seventh chord [37] shook me to the foundations to such an extent that, unable to restrain myself, I sneezed; and as I had left my handkerchief in a coat pocket, I felt obliged to leave the company and rose from the table. Slumping motionless in a chair in the anteroom, I tried to steady my wobbly senses. Only those who, like me, knew the Countess, the Marchioness and the Baron for so long, admiring their refined gestures, the incomparable nobility of their features, their delicacy, moderation and the subtlety of all their habits (especially their eating habits) could truly judge the overwhelming impression I had received. It was at precisely this moment that I accidentally glanced at the "The Red Courier" sticking out of my coat pocket and noticed this sensational headline:

KOLIFLAUER'S MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

and the subheading

KOLIFLAUER IN DANGER OF FREEZING TO DEATH

followed by a brief note that read:

"Walenty Koliflauer, a groom in the village of Rudka (which belongs to the estates of the right honorable Countess von Doff), arrived at the police precinct to report that his son Bolek, age 8, stubby nose, flaxen hair, had run away from home. As the police discovered, the boy escaped because his father, when drunk, whipped him with a strap, while his mother starved him (which is, unfortunately, a widespread phenomenon during the prevailing crisis). There is a concern that the boy may freeze to death wandering through the fields in the foul autumn weather."

"Sss...," I hissed, looking out the window at the fields, which were enveloped in thin sheets of rain. Then I returned to the dining room, where the enormous silver platter revealed the last remnants of the cauliflower. The Countess' stomach looked as if she were seven months' pregnant, the Baron had almost drowned his face in the plate, and the old Marchioness chewed tirelessly, moving her jaws - really, I have to say it - like a cow! "Divine, wonderful," they kept repeating. "Brilliant, incomparable!" Utterly bemused, I sampled the cauliflower once more - deliberately and attentively - but I couldn't detect anything that would justify, at least partially, the unabashed delight of the company.
"What can you possibly see in this?" I said, clearing my throat shyly, somewhat ashamed.
"Ha, ha, ha - he wants to know what we see in this!" the Baron loudly exclaimed, stuffing his mouth in a jubilant mood.
"You really can't appreciate that flavor... young man?" asked the Marchioness, who didn't stop digesting the food for a single moment.
"You're not a gourmet," the Baron observed pointedly, as though with a hint of polite regret. "And I... et moi, je ne suis pas gastronome - je suis gastrosophe!" [38] Did I hear wrong or did something swell within him as he was uttering that French phrase? Indeed, he hurled the last word "gastrosophe" out of his puffed cheeks with an unusual haughtiness, which I hadn't seen in him before!
"It's well prepared, certainly...very tasty, yes, very...but...," I spluttered.
"But...? But what? So you really can't appreciate that flavor, delicate freshness, munch-munch, indefinable firmness... special pepper... that subtle aroma or that alcohol? Why, dear sir (he had called me "dear sir" in such a condescending tone for the first time since I met him). "You can't be serious? Do you want to make us feel bad?" [39]
"Don't tell him anything!" interrupted the Countess playfully, doubling up with laughter. "Don't tell him anything! He won't understand anyway!
"Good taste, young man, is something you suck in with your mother's milk," lisped the
Marchioness with an air of benevolence, apparently insinuating that my mother (may she rest in peace!) bore a funny folksy maiden name.
      Then, abandoning the food, they rolled, their full stomachs first, into a gilt boudoir a la Louis XVI where, sprawling in the softest armchairs, they openly began to laugh at me, as if I had given them any reason for such transports of joy. I had been socializing with aristocrats at five-o'clock teas and charity concerts for a long time, but - I swear - I had never seen such behavior, such an abrupt transition or such a completely unwarranted transformation. Not knowing if I should sit or stand or remain serious or rather faire bonne mine a mauvais jeu [40] and grin stupidly - I tried vaguely and I tried shyly to return to Arcadia [41], i.e. to Beauty, i.e. to the pumpkin soup:
 

To return to Beauty...

"Enough, enough!" exclaimed Baron de Apfelbaum, stopping his ears. "Oh, what a bore! And now - fun and games! - S'encanailler! [42] I'll sing something better for you! From an operetta!
 

Oh, what a funny novice!
He doesn't grasp any of this!
I shall begin to make him aware:
Beauty is not in things beautiful,
But in delicious fare.
Good taste! Good taste! Hark - this is Beauty's mark!

"Bravo!" exclaimed the Countess, and the Marchioness chimed in with her, revealing gums in a senile chortle. "Bravo! Cocasse! Charmant!" [43]
"But it seems to me...it's not like that...," I stammered, my dumb stare completely out of keeping with my evening attire.
"We, aristocrats," said the Marchioness, leaning toward me with an air of benevolence, "behave with great casualness in our inner circle where, as you may have heard, we sometimes use crass expressions and tend to act frivolous or at times even singularly boorish. But there's no need to be terrified like that! You should get used to our ways!"
"We aren't that terrrible!" put in the Baron in a patronizing manner. "However, it's more difficult to get used to our boorrishness than to our rrefinement!"
"No, we aren't terrible!" piped in the Countess. "We don't eat people alive!
"We don't eat people, except for..."
"Except for...!"
"Fi donc, ha, ha, ha," [44] they burst into laughter, tossing up embroidered pillows; while the Countess sang:
 

Yes, yes -
Good taste is everything!
Good taste is everything!
To make a crayfish tasty, you should torment it a little bit,
To make a turkey scrumptious, you should torture it on a spit.
Does anyone know the flavor of my lips?
Those who have a different taste than we do,
Will never address us by the familiar "you"!

"But dear Countess...," I whispered, "the green peas, the carrot, the celery roots, the kohlrabi... "
"The cauliflower!" added the Baron, choking suspiciously.
"Exactly!" I said, completely confused. "Exactly...! The cauliflower! The cauliflower... the fasting... the vegetarian vegetables..."
"Well, what about that cauliflower - did it taste good? It was delicious, wasn't it? I expect you finally grasped the flavor of that cauliflower?" What a tone! What condescension! What a barely noticeable, though menacing and lordly impatience there was in his tone! I began to stutter - didn't know what to answer - how to contradict - or how to confirm - and then (oh, I would never have believed that this noble, humane person, this brother poet, would make me painfully aware that there was no way a commoner like myself could remain in his good graces forever!), reclining in the armchair and stroking his thin long leg, which he inherited from Princess Filidumski, he said to the ladies in a tone which literally crushed me: "Rreally, dear Countess, there's no point in having to dinner charracters whose taste still rremains at the level of utter prrimitivism!"
      Then, paying no attention to me, they began, shot glass in hand, to quip among themselves in such a way that I suddenly became quantité négligeable [45]: about "Alice" and her chimerical fancies, about "Gabie" and "Buba," about "Princess Mary," about some "pheasants," about somebody being "incorrigible" and somebody else "impossible." They told anecdotes and gossips in shorthand, in lofty language, saying "crrazed," "fantastic," "rremarkable," "grrotesque" and even using a great deal of plebeian swear words, such as "crrap" and "frrig it," so that this kind of conversation seemed to be the peak of human possibilities. Meanwhile, together with Beauty, humanity and with all the subjects of a thinking reed, wrecked and pushed aside, God knows why, like a useless piece of equipment, I had nothing to say. They also told in a few words some puzzling aristocratic jokes, which aroused extraordinary mirth and which, being ignorant of their origin, I could appreciate only by a forced smile. Good Lord, what could have happened! What was this sudden and cruel transformation? Why were they different while having the pumpkin soup? Was I really disseminating the splendors of humanity with them in the highest harmony a while ago, while having the pumpkin soup? Why this fatal element, and for no apparent reason, too? Why this strangeness, iciness and irony in their humor? Why this incomprehensible inclination toward painful ridicule about my appearance? Why this detachment and aloofness, so I didn't even dare approach them?! I couldn't understand that metamorphosis, and the Marchioness' words about "their circle" reminded me of all those horror stories spread in my middle-class community - to which I lent no credence - about two-faced aristocrats, who lived in isolation and were quite unapproachable toward strangers.
      Unable to bear my own silence, which was continually pushing me toward the brink of an abysmal precipice, I finally said to the Countess without rhyme or reason, sounding like an outdated echo of the past: "I'm sorry to bother you...You promised, dear Countess, to give me an inscribed copy of your triolets [46] 'The Prattle of My Soul'."
"What's that?" she asked amused, not hearing me. "How's that? You were saying?"
"Pardon me - you promised, dear Countess, to give me an inscribed copy of your poem 'The Prattle of My Soul'."
"Oh, that's right," replied the Countess distractedly, though with her usual courtesy (usual or different? or new to such an extent that my cheek flushed with blood without my conscious cooperation?); and picking up from the table a small volume bound in white, she casually scribbled a few courteous words on the title page and signed:

Boff the Countess.

"But Countess!" I exclaimed, deeply hurt at seeing the historical name Doff in such an ambiguous context.
"I'm so distracted!" exclaimed the Countess amid general amusement. "I'm so distracted!" However, I didn't feel like laughing. "Sss... sss..." I almost hissed once more. The Countess was laughing loudly and proudly, but at the same time her noble little foot was performing various flourishes on the carpet in an extremely titillating and enticing manner, as though glorying in its own slender ankle - to the right, to the left, or in a circle; the Baron, reclining in his armchair, seemed to be getting ready for an excellent bon mot, while his small ear, typical of the Filidumski family, was even smaller than usual - and he was slipping a grape between his lips. The Marchioness was sitting with her usual refinement, but her long thin neck of a grande dame was even longer, and its slightly wrinkled surface was peering my way. Besides, one should add a significant detail: the rain, carried by the wind, kept lashing against the windows like a whip.
      Maybe I took my staggering, though undeserved tumble too much to heart; maybe under its influence I yielded to the persecution mania of a low-class individual admitted to high society; and it's possible that my sensitivity was stimulated by certain accidental associations or, say, analogies, who knows... it's possible, I'm not going to deny that. But suddenly something quite extraordinary blew from them toward me! And I can't deny that their refinement, subtlety, politeness and elegance were still refined, subtle, polite and elegant in the extreme, no doubt about it. However, I couldn't understand why they were so stifling that I was inclined to believe that all those fine and humanitarian qualities had become mad! What's more, I suddenly realized (that was undoubtedly the effect of the dainty foot, ear and neck) that, although they were not looking at me and ignoring me in a lordly manner, they saw my confusion and delighted in it! I also began to suspect that Boff... that Boff wasn't necessarily a mere lapsus linguae and that Boff simply stood for "boff!" Boff? Boff the Countess? Yes, yes... the shiny toes of patent leather shoes confirmed me in my terrifying conviction! It seemed that they were quietly splitting their sides with laughter because of my failure to appreciate the cauliflower's flavor; because the cauliflower was a mere vegetable to me; because having failed to properly delight in that cauliflower, I gave proof of my artless simplicity and deplorable middle-class mentality. They were quietly splitting their sides with laughter and were getting ready to burst out openly if I only gave vent to my fervent emotions. Yes, yes: they ignored and snubbed me, and at the same time, on the side, with individual aristocratic body parts, with their dainty feet, ears and necks, they provoked and tempted me to break the seal of secrecy.
      I don't think I have to add that this quiet temptation and hidden, unwholesome flirtation shook the entire thinking reed in me. I vaguely mentioned the "secret" of aristocracy, that secret of good taste, that mystery which the uninitiated will never uncover even if, as Schopenhauer says, they knew 300 rules of savoir-vivre by heart [47]. And although I hoped for a moment that, after finding out this secret, I would be admitted to their inner circle, burr my r's and say "fantastic" and "crazed" like them my burning desire for knowledge was completely paralyzed - leaving other reasons aside - by the fear and concern (why not admit it openly?) that they might slap me in the face. Since one never knows where one stands with aristocrats, one must deal with them more carefully than with a tame leopard. When asked by Princess X about his mother's maiden name, a certain representative of the middle class grew insolent in consequence of the ostensible permissiveness prevailing in that salon and the tolerance shown to two of his previous witticisms; and assuming that he was free to do all he wanted, he replied: "Brewski, by your leave!" - and was immediately expelled for that "by your leave" of his (which was deemed vulgar).
"But Philip," I thought cautiously, "Philip made a vow...!" After all, the cook is a cook! The cook is a cook, the cauliflower a cauliflower, and the Countess a Countess, don't anyone forget that! Yes, the Countess is a countess, the Baron a baron, and the gusts of wind and the nasty weather outside the windows are gusts of wind and nasty weather, while the small hands of a child in the dark and the back bruised by father's strap under the lashing wave of drizzle are small hands and a bruised back, no more... and the Countess is undoubtedly a Countess. The Countess is a countess and she will cut you down to size if you're not careful!
      Seeing that I was mired in complete, almost paralytic inactivity, they began, as if imperceptibly, to close in on me, harass me more openly and show a growing willingness to make a fool of me. "Look at that terrified expression!" cried the Countess suddenly. Then they began to tease me, saying that I certainly must be terribly "outrraged" and "horrrified," for certainly nobody "rromped and rraved" like that in my set; that the manners prevailing in it were incomparably better and not as savage as in their circles, among aristocrats. Feigning fear of my severity, they began playfully to rebuke and reprove one another, pretending that they valued my opinion above everything else.
"Stop talking nonsense! You're awful!" exclaimed the Countess (although the Baron wasn't awful at all; there was nothing awful about him, except for that small ear of his, which he was gleefully touching with the tips of his thin bony fingers).
"Behave decently, I say!" shouted the Baron (the Countess and the Marchioness were behaving quite decently).
"Don't talk nonsense - don't sprawl on the sofa - don't kick up your feet and don't shove your legs onto the table! (God forbid! The Countess had no such intention.) "You're hurting this poor man's feelings! Your dainty nose, dear Countess, is really too aristocratic! Be merciful, Madam! (May I ask who the Countess was to show mercy to because of her dainty nose?) The Countess was quietly shedding tears of joy. However, the fact that I had my head hidden in the sand like an ostrich excited them even further. It seemed that they had thrown all caution to the winds, as though they absolutely wanted to teach me a lesson; and, unable to restrain themselves, they were making increasingly clear allusions. Allusions? What allusions? Oh, the same as always, of course; and they were closing in on me even more openly, more explicitly, more impudently... "May I smoke?" asked the Baron with affectation, taking out his gold cigarette case. (Could he smoke?! It sounded as if he didn't realize that the humidity, the rain and the freezing nasty wind outside could freeze us stiff any minute. Could he smoke?!)
"Do you hear the rain lashing?" lisped the Marchioness naively. (Lashing? Sure it was lashing! It must have done an excellent lashing job out there.) "Oh, listen to that plop-plop of single drops - listen to that plop-plop-plop-plop - listen, oh! listen to those drops, I'm begging you!"
"Oh, what atrocious, dismal rainy weather, what terrible wind!" exclaimed the Countess. "Oh, oh, oh - ha, ha, ha - such ferocious storm! It's so unpleasant to watch!
I'm getting goose bumps and I feel like laughing at the mere sight of it!"
"Ha, ha, ha," put in the Baron, "look - how wonderfully everything is dripping! Look at the variety of arabesques traced by the water! Look - how that delightful mud is wonderfully seeping, how everything is spattered with thick ooze, how that mud is oozing just like Cumberland sauce, and how that drizzle is whipping, whipping - wonderfully whipping, and that slight wind biting, biting - how it's making people's faces red, how it's nipping, how wonderfully crushing! Upon my word, this makes my mouth water!"
"Rreally, verry tasty - verry, verry savorry!"
"Extremely tasteful!"
"Just like cotelette de volaille!
"Or like frricassee a la Heine!"
"Or like crrrrrayfish frrrrricassee!"
      These bon mots, which only born aristocrats can produce with such consummate ease, were followed by movements and gestures, which... the meaning of which, wedged into my chair and utterly motionless, I wish, oh! I wish I hadn't understood. I won't even mention that the ear, the dainty nose, the refined neck and the small foot were on the verge of reaching the level of ardor and frenzy - and what's more, the banker, drawing deeply on a cigarette, began to blow small blue rings into the air. My God, if he only blew a ring or two! But he blew one ring after another, pursing his lips into a little snout - while the Countess and the Marchioness applauded! And every ring rose into the air and dissolved slowly in melodious curlicues! The Countess' long, serpentine white arm rested on the patterned satin of the armchair all the time, while her nervous-looking ankle fidgeted under the table like a poisonous vicious black viper. I felt vaguely uncomfortable. That's not all - I swear I'm not exaggerating! - the Baron went in his effrontery so far that he curled his upper lip, took a toothpick out of his pocket and began to pick his teeth (yes, his teeth), which were precious, decayed and heavily laced with gold!
      Aghast, utterly at a loss as to what to do and where to escape, I addressed myself imploringly to the Marchioness, who had shown me the most kindness and who, at the dinner table, had so movingly worshipped Compassion and her little children suffering from rickets - and I began to talk about compassion - I almost begged her for compassion. "Oh, Madam," I said, "you've shown so much devotion to poor children! Oh, Madam! For God's sake!" Do you know what she answered me? Surprised, she looked at me with her lackluster pupils, wiped tears of delirious joy from her eyes, and then, as if remembering something, she said:
"Oh, you're talking about my little English colts...? Oh yes, as a matter of fact, when I see them totter clumsily on their poor twisted legs, stumble and fall, I still feel hale and hearty! Old, but hale and hearty! In the old days, I rode on English thoroughbreds, in a black riding habit and shiny jodhpur boots, and now... hélas, les beaux temps sont passés [48] - now that I can't do that because I'm old, I ride merrily on my small misshapen English colts!" Suddenly she reached down with her hand, making me recoil, for - I swear - she wanted to show me her straight old leg, which was still hale and hearty!
"Oh, Christ!" I exclaimed, barely alive. "But Love, Compassion, Beauty, prisoners, disabled, retired, emaciated schoolmistresses..."
"Oh, we remember them, we certainly do!" said the Countess with a laugh that sent shivers down my spine. "Oh, these dear, poor mistresses."
"We remember them!" reassured me the old Marchioness.
"We remember them!" echoed the Baron de Apfelbaum - while I was paralyzed with fear. "We remember them! Oh, these dear, well-meaning prrisoners!"
      They weren't looking at me: they were looking up at the ceiling, tilting back their heads as if that alone could stop the violent spasms of their jowls. Ha! I had no more doubts. I finally understood where I was and was seized by an uncontrollable twitching of my lower jaw. Meanwhile, the rain kept lashing the windows like a whip.
"But Providence... there is Providence!" I finally stammered out with the last of my strength, casting frantically around for some point of support. "There is Providence," I added quietly, for the word "Providence" sounded so inappropriate that everyone fell silent. However, their faces revealed various ominous signs, which prefigured the disastrous effects of the blunder I had made - and all I could do was to wait for them to ask me to leave!
"Oh yes," retorted Baron de Apfelbaum after a moment, crushing me with the utmost tact. "Providence? It's in America, in the state of Rhode Island!"
      Who would have ventured some repartee? Who wouldn't have been at a loss for words, as they say? I lapsed into silence. Meanwhile, the Marchioness sat down at the piano, while the Baron and the Countess began to frolic - and there was so much style, good taste and elegance emanating from each of their movements that - ha! - I wanted to escape, but how could I leave the company without so much as a goodbye? And how could I say goodbye when they were dancing? So I was watching from a corner and I have to say that I had never expected to see such utterly shameless and brazen-faced wretches! I can't violate my nature by describing what was happening - no, nobody can demand that from me. Suffice it to say that, while the Countess was putting forward her dainty foot, the Baron was withdrawing his many, many times - and this with a perfectly affable face and with such an expression as though that dance was, say, a mere tango - while the Marchioness was playing passages, arpeggios and trills on the piano! But I already knew what it was: they had forcibly crammed the dance of cannibals into my soul! The dance of cannibals! - with style, good taste and elegance - and I began to look around for an idol, a Negroid monster with a square skull, upturned lips, rounded cheeks and a flattened nose, which was presiding over the Bacchanalia [49] from above. I looked around and noticed something of the sort outside the window: a round child's face with a flattened nose, upraised brows, protruding ears, emaciated and feverish, but staring with the cosmic idiotic expression of a Negro idol and with such infinite delight that, like hypnotized, I couldn't take my eyes from the buttons of my vest for an hour (or two).
      At dawn, when I finally escaped down the slippery stairs of the porch in the graying wet weather, I saw a body lying in the bed of dried irises under the window. Quite simply, it was the dead body of a barefoot little boy of eight with flaxen hair and a stubby nose, who was so emaciated that he seemed to have been utterly devoured - indeed, only a few tiny bits of flesh remained under the grimy skin. Ha! So poor Bolek Koliflauer had come all the way to the palace, attracted by the bright windows he could see from afar in the sodden field. And when I was rushing out of the gate, Philip the cook suddenly emerged out of nowhere in a white apron, with a round cap, reddish stubble and a sidelong glance. Then, lean and refined, looking like a master of the culinary arts who butchers hens and then serves them as chicken fricassee, fawning on me, bowing and groveling abjectly, he said: "I hope you enjoyed your meatless dinner, sir!"


 

NOTES
 

25. thinking reed: "Man is only a reed, the weakest in nature, but he is a thinking reed." (Blaise Pascal, Pensées, translated by D. A. Kreilsheimer, Penguin Books, 1966, p. 95).
26. ...at which she appeared as a de Médicis: The reference is to Catherine de Médicis (1519-1589) and/or Marie de Médicis (1573-1642), descendants of the illustrious Medici family, which ruled Florence for almost three centuries. Catherine, queen of France, ruled as regent during her son's minority. A patron of the arts, she built a new wing of the Louvre Museum, the château of Monceau and initiated construction of the Tuileries gardens. Marie, queen consort of Henry IV of France, also ruled as regent during her son's minority, and was a patron of the Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens, who illustrated her life in a brilliant series of 21 paintings (1622-1624).
27. In order to understand this obscure allusion, the reader should be aware that:

a. The eponymous heroine of this story (Maria Kotłubaj in the original) was modeled on one Marta Krasiński, a socialite dedicated to charity work and culture (see Witold Gombrowicz, Wspomnienia Polskie, Wydawnictwo Literackie, Kraków 1996, p. 94);
b. The idea of Holy Trinity trenches originated from Zygmunt Krasiński's play "The Un-Divine Comedy." In it, the reactionaries (mainly aristocrats, landowners and the clergy), positioned in the trenches surrounding the Holy Trinity Castle, defend themselves against the revolutionaries (the lower classes), attempting to stem the tide of what may be termed "barbarism," "savagery," etc. See Note 9 on Zygmunt Krasiński (1812-1859), the 19th century playwright and poet.

28. Ada Sari (1886-1968): Polish-born opera singer. Ada Sari (whose real name was Jadwiga Szajer) was a renowned coloratura soprano - a vocal virtuoso capable of performing various spectacular effects, such as rapid runs and trills, in the highest register.
29. It even seemed that our teeth...lost their mark of Cain there: The divine mark that was affixed to Cain for slaying his brother Abel (Genesis 4:1-16) has become known as the mark (or brand) of Cain and is sometimes used figuratively to denote a murderer.
30. spécialité de la maison: (French) - the specialty of the house.
31. God has entrusted me with Maria von Doff - and I shall return her only to Him. Legend has it that the last words Prince Józef Poniatowski uttered immediately before drowning in the Elster (at Leipzig, Germany) were: "God has entrusted me with the honor of Poles and I shall return it only to Him!" See Note 8 on Prince Józef Poniatowski (1796-1813).
32. The White Eagle: A crowned white eagle, its wings spread on a red escutcheon, is the national emblem of Poland.
33. Amphitryon: (Greek myths) Foster-father of Hercules. Figuratively, an amphitryon is a host at dinner. The term originated from Molière's comedy (Amphitryon), in which Amphitryon entertains his guests to a sumptuous feast.
34. comment dirais-je: (French) How shall I put it?
35. Pythia: (Greek myths) The priestess of Apollo at Delphi. Pythia delivered the answers of Apollo, which were famous for their vagueness and obscurity, to those who came to consult the famous oracle at Delphi.
36. patronessa and dogaressa (French, Italian): Literally, patron of the arts and the wife of a Doge (i.e. the chief magistrate in the former republics of Venice (697-1797) and Genoa (1339-1797 and 1802-1805)). As used in this story, the euphonious dogaressa connotes a glamorous and influential society woman.
37. diminished-seventh chord: This is a musical effect, also known as accorde di stupefazione or "chord of stupefaction." Composers sometimes use it to enhance tension and high drama.
38. Et moi, je ne suis pas gastronome - je suis gastrosophe! (French): As for me, I'm not a gourmet - I'm a philosopher of food!
39. Why, dear sir...: From now on Baron de Apfelbaum burrs his r's, affecting the Parisian grasseymant (the French verb grasseyer means "to use a uvular 'r'"). This phonetic oddity was attributed to Polish aristocrats in humorous or satirical writings. In this context, it is pertinent to note that native Polish speakers roll their r's in standard unaffected speech.
40. faire bonne mine a mauvais jeu: (French idiom) to put a brave face on it.
41. Arcadia: (Greek myths) A mountainous, sparsely populated country in the middle of the Peloponnesus, famous for its scenic splendors and celebrated by poets of antiquity. Arcadia (also referred to as Arcady) was adopted by the poets as a symbol of quiet rustic life, celestial happiness, Paradise on earth, etc.
42. S'encanailler!: (French) to keep bad company, descend to the level of riff-raff.
43. Cocasse! Charmant! (French) Funny! Charming!
44. Fi donc: (French) an expression used typically to express disdain, contempt or disgust.
45. quantité négligeable: (French) an unimportant person or thing.
46. triolets: A triolet is a poem or stanza of eight lines rhyming abaaabab, the first line repeated as the fourth and seventh and the second as the eighth.
47. ... even if, as Schopenhauer says, they knew 300 rules of savoir-vivre by heart: I haven't been able to trace this reference. It appears to be a playful misattribution to the German philosopher Artur Schopenhauer (1788-1890), who was critical of the aristocracy and its ways.
48. hélas, les beaux temps sont passés: (French) Alas, the good times are over.
49. Bacchanalia: (Greek myths) Festivals in honor of the God of wine and revelry Bacchus (Greek name) a.k.a. Dionysus (Roman name, sometimes incorrectly spelled Dionysius). These celebrations, referred to as the orgia or Dionysiac mysteries, subsequently became a byword for intoxication and licentiousness.


© Translation and notes by Christopher Makosa