ATTORNEY KRAYKOWSKI' S DANCER

by Witold Gombrowicz

Translated from the Polish by Christopher Makosa
 

      This was the thirty-fourth time I went to see The Gypsy Princess operetta [1] - and since it was getting late, I skipped the line and addressed myself directly to the ticket-seller: "For me, dear lady, one for the gallery as usual, make it snappy" - suddenly someone took me by the collar behind me and coldly - yes, coldly - pulled me away from the window and pushed toward the proper place, i.e. where the line ended. My heart missed a beat, I gasped for breath - isn't it mortifying to be collared suddenly in a public place? - but I looked around: it was a tall, spruce, fragrant fellow with a clipped little mustache. Conversing with two elegant ladies and one gentleman, he was inspecting the tickets he had just bought.
      All looked at me - and I had to say something.
      "Did you do that, sir?" I asked perhaps in an ironic, perhaps even ominous tone, but since I had suddenly grown weak, I asked too softly.
"Eh?" he asked, leaning toward me.
"Did you do that, sir?" I repeated, but again - too softly.
"Yes, I did. Over there - to the end. Order! Europe!" - and addressing the ladies, he remarked: "We should teach, teach tirelessly, or we'll never stop being a horde of Zulus."
      Some forty pairs of eyes and various faces - my heart was beating, my voice had died away, I bent my steps toward the exit - at the last moment (I bless it, that moment) - something shifted within me and I turned back. I got in line, bought a ticket and only just made it for the first measures of the introduction, but this time I didn't sink my soul into the performance as usual. While the Gypsy Princess sang striking the castanets, arching her torso and gasping - dapper young men with stand-up collars and top hats marched in single file under her lifted arm - I, looking down at the fair-haired, pomaded head that loomed in the front rows of the parquet, kept repeating: "Oh, so that's how it is!"
      After Act One I went downstairs, leaned lightly against the railing of the orchestra - and waited a little. Suddenly - I bowed. He didn't acknowledge it. So one more bow - then I began to survey the boxes and again - I bowed when an opportune moment came. I returned upstairs, I trembled, I was exhausted.
      Having come out of the theater, I stationed myself on the sidewalk. Soon after, he appeared - he was taking his leave of one of the ladies and her husband: "Till we meet again, dearest friends, so - without fail - I beseech you! - tomorrow at ten at Polonia, my respects." Then he helped the other lady into the taxi and when he was about to get in, I approached.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but perhaps you would be kind enough to give me a lift a little way: I just love to ride in style."
"Get away from me!" he exclaimed.
"Perhaps you would support me," I calmly addressed the driver. Inwardly I felt unusually calm. "I like . . ." - but the car was already moving away. Even though I don't have much money - merely for my indispensable needs - I hopped into the next taxi and told the driver to follow them.
"Excuse me," I said to the porter of a five-story brownstone house. "Wasn't it Dziubiński, the engineer, who entered a moment ago?"
"Why no, sir." he replied. "It was Attorney Kraykowski and his wife."
      I returned to my place. That night I couldn't fall asleep - my mind returned repeatedly to the whole incident at the theater, to my bows and to the Attorney's departure - I tossed from side to side in the state of wakefulness and increased activity which doesn't let one fall asleep and which, at the same time, due to one's persistent tossing and turning, constitutes another waking dream, as it were. First thing the next morning, I sent a magnificent bouquet of roses to Attorney Kraykowski's address. Across the house from where he lived was a small creamery with a porch - I spent the whole morning sitting there and finally saw him about three, in an elegant gray suit, cane in hand. Oh, yes - on he came and whistled along, swinging the cane now and then, swinging the cane... Immediately I paid the check and ran out after him - and admiring the slight undulating movement of his back, I reveled in the fact that he didn't know anything; that it was mine, internal. He was trailing a waft of fragrance behind him, he was fresh - it seemed impossible to make any close contact with him. But I found a remedy for that, too! I decided: if he turns left, you'll buy this book, The Adventure by London, of which you've been dreaming for so long - but if he turns right, you'll never have it, never ever; even if you got it for free, you'd never read so much as one page! It would be lost! Oh, I could contemplate for hours that spot on his neck where hair terminates in an even line and a white nape follows. He turned left. Under different circumstances I would at once have run to the bookstore, but now I kept walking behind him - and with only a sense of inexpressible gratitude.
      The sight of a flower woman gave me a new idea: after all, I could at once, immediately - it lay in my power - give him a round of applause, pay discreet homage, something he might not notice. So what if he didn't notice? After all, it's even more beautiful to worship someone in secret. I bought a small bouquet, overtook him - as soon as I entered his field of vision it became impossible for me to walk at a measured, leisurely pace - and imperceptibly threw a few shy violets at his feet. This way, I suddenly found myself in an extremely odd situation: I constantly walked further and further, without knowing if he was going on behind me or perhaps had turned a corner or entered a gate; and I had no strength to turn around - I wouldn't have turned around even if I don't know what, everything altogether, had depended on it; but when I finally mastered myself, pretended to be losing my hat and retraced my steps - he was no longer behind me.
      Till evening I lived only for the thought of Polonia.
      I came close behind them into a richly decorated room and sat down at the next table. I had a premonition that this would cost me dear, but in the final analysis (I thought), it made no difference and perhaps - I wouldn't live more than a year, I didn't need to economize. They spotted me right away; the ladies were even so tactless that they began to whisper - but he didn't fall short of my expectations. He didn't pay the slightest attention to me: he danced attendance, now stooping close toward the ladies, now looking around to watch the other women. While examining the menu, he spoke deliberately, with relish:
"Hors d'oeuvres, caviar... mayonnaise... poularde...pineapple for dessert - black coffee, Pommard, Chablis, cognac and the liqueurs."
      I placed an order.
"Caviar - mayonnaise - poularde - pineapple for dessert - black coffee, Pommard, Chablis, cognac and the liqueurs."
      It lasted a long time. The Attorney ate plenty of food, especially the poularde [2] - while I had to force myself - in fact, I already thought I wouldn't be up to it and looked in terror to see if he would take more again. He kept on taking more and ate with gusto, in big mouthfuls, ate mercilessly, washing the food down with wine, until finally it became a real ordeal for me. I think I'll never be able to look at poularde again and I'll never manage to swallow mayonnaise, unless - unless some day we go to the restaurant together again, in which case it would be different: then, I know it for sure, then I would persevere. He also drank so much wine that my head began to reel. The mirror reflected his figure! How magnificently he was bending over! How deftly and expertly fixing himself his cocktail! How elegantly, toothpick between teeth, quipping! He had a bald spot camouflaged at the crown of his head, manicured hands with a signet ring on one finger and a deep voice: a baritone that was soft, caressing. The Attorney's wife had nothing remarkable about her - she was, one might say, unworthy - but the Doctor's wife! Immediately I noticed that his voice, when he addressed the Doctor's wife, assumed softer and rounder tones. Oh, yes! Sure thing! The Doctor's wife was as if made for him: svelte, serpentine, sophisticated, idle - a pussycat with a wonderful feminine whimsy. And, in his mouth, the words little claws sounded superb - it could be seen that he liked to . . . that he knew how to . . . Little claws, babe, carousal, rake, roué, tippler - ha, ha, he was a tippler, the dear Doc! And: "I beseech you," that "I beseech you," so expressive and irresistible, so decorous and yet brooking no objection, like a three-word chronicle of all possible triumphs. And his nails were pink, one especially, on his pinky. I didn't return home till about two in the morning and flung myself onto the bed, fully clothed. I was saturated, sated, crushed, I got the hiccups, my head was abuzz and the delicate dishes bloated my stomach. Orgy! Orgy and merrymaking, revels! "A night at the restaurant," I whispered, "nighttime revels! For the first time - nighttime revels! Because of him - and for him!
      From then on I sat every day on the porch of the creamery waiting for the Attorney and, whenever he appeared, I followed him. Someone else, perhaps, couldn't sacrifice six or seven hours to wait. But I had plenty of time. My disease, epilepsy, was my only occupation - and an extremely rare occupation - in the margin of the string of days; besides that: no other duties, I had time to spare. I wasn't distracted, like others, by relatives, acquaintances and friends, women and dances; except for only one dance - St. Vitus's dance - I knew neither dances nor women. A modest little income sufficed for my needs and, anyhow, there were grounds to believe that my frail constitution wouldn't last long - why, then, should I economize? From morning to night I was free, unoccupied; it was like an unending holiday, a continuous stretch of time: I was the sultan, and the hours - my nymphs of paradise...
      Do come at last - O death!
The Attorney loved to eat and it's difficult to express how beautiful that was; when returning from the Court, he always stopped over at a pastry shop and ate two napoleons there - I spied on him through the display window: standing at the counter, he slid the pastries into his mouth gingerly, so as not to become sullied by the custard, and then licked his fingers clean daintily or wiped them with a paper napkin. I thought about it for a long time and finally, one day, I walked into that pastry shop. "Ma'am, you know Attorney Kraykowski? He eats two napoleons in here. You do? Then let me pay for the napoleons for a month in advance. When he comes in, please don't accept any money, only smile: 'it's already taken care of.' It's nothing: simply, you see, I've lost a bet."
      The next day he came in as usual, ate and wanted to pay - the cashier refused to accept the money - got irritated and dropped the coin into the poor-box. What did it matter to me? A mere formality: he can give as much as he wants for homeless children - the fact remains that he ate two of my napoleons. But I won't describe everything here, for is it possible to describe everything anyway? It was [like] a [life at] sea - from morning till evening, and often at night, too. It was wild, as when, for example, we once sat facing each other, eye to eye, on the tram; and sweet whenever I could do him a favor - but at times also ridiculous. Ridiculous, sweet and wild? - yes, nothing is so difficult and delicate, so sacred even, as the personality of man; nothing can equal that rapacity of secret relations, slight and purposeless, born between strangers to shackle them imperceptibly together with a monstrous bond. Imagine the Attorney walking out of a public urinal, reaching for change and finding out that the charge . . . has already been paid. What does he feel then? Imagine him encountering at every step signs of hero-worship, reverence and servility, allegiance and a sense of steadfast duty, ardor. But the Doctor's wife! The dreadful conduct of the Doctor's wife nagged at me. Didn't his courtship appeal to her, didn't the toothpick and cocktail at Polonia make any impression on her? Quite obviously, she didn't consent - once, I noticed, he left her place furious, his tie askew . . . What a woman! What to do, how induce her, how persuade so she will at once understand well, grasp the way I did, feel. After long hesitation, I decided: an anonymous letter - that's the best.

      "Madam!

      How can you? Your conduct is incomprehensible; no, you can't act like that! Are you insensitive to that shape, to those gestures and modulations, to that fragrance? Don't you grasp that perfection? What are you a woman for? If I were you, I would know what to do if he only deigned to beckon with his finger to my miserable, sluggish female body."

      Several days later, Attorney Kraykowski (it was in an empty street, late in the evening) stopped, wheeled around and began to wait, cane in hand. It would have been unseemly to retreat - so I continued on my way, even though a certain languor was suffusing my body - when suddenly he grabbed my shoulder and shook me, banging the cane on the ground.
"What's the meaning of those idiotic libels? Why are you bothering me?" he shouted. "How come you're following me? What is this? I'll thrash you with my cane! I'll break your bones!"
      I couldn't speak. I was happy. I received it like Communion and closed my eyes. In total silence, I bent over and offered my back. I waited - and experienced a few perfect moments that can be granted only to those who really don't have many days before them. When I straightened up, he was quickly walking away, tap-tapping with his cane. My heart brimming over, in a mood of grace and blessing, I returned by empty streets. Too little, I thought, too little! All too little! More - still more!
      And contrition mingled with gratitude. Of course! She viewed my letter as a wretched bit of rhetoric, a silly hoax, and showed it to the Attorney. Instead of helping, I did harm, and all because I'm too indolent, sluggish, I give too little of myself - too little seriousness and responsibility; I can't inspire understanding.

"Madam!
In order to make you realize, to find a way to your conscience - I declare that, beginning with today, I'm going to practice various forms of self-mortification (fasts, etc.) so long as this doesn't happen. Madam, you are impudent! What words do I have to use to explain the meaning of necessity, obligation, dog-like duty? How long do I have to put up with this? What is this stubbornness supposed to mean? Why this hubris?!"


      And the next day, having remembered an important detail, I wrote:

" 'Violette' perfume only. He likes it."

      From then on, the Attorney stopped seeing the Doctor's wife. Something gnawed at me, I couldn't sleep at night. I'm not naive. I'm knowledgeable about many things, a fact no one would suspect me of - I realize, for example, what impression a letter like this can create on the worldly and secular [3] person that the wife of the Doctor is. I can even smile, in moments of the utmost rapture, a still-waters-run-deep smile - but what of that? Did that make my suffering less intense and the torments I had inflicted on myself less painful? My indignation less relevant? My reverence for the Attorney less real? Oh, no! What is important? Life, health? Then I swear that with the same still-waters-run-deep little smile I would give my life and health so she . . . so she would provide satisfaction. Or maybe this woman had ethical scruples? What are stupid ethics in comparison with Attorney Kraykowski? Just in case, I decided to reassure her in that respect, too!

      "Madam, you must! The Doctor is a zero - thin air."

      But with her it wasn't ethics: it was simply hubris or, indeed, the absurd behavior of a sulky female and a lack of understanding of sacred elementary matters. I walked under her windows - what was going on up there, behind the drawn lace curtain (for she was a late riser), what frame of mind was she in? Women are too superficial! I tried magnetism: "You must, you must," I said time after time, gazing up at the window, "tonight, already tonight, if your husband isn't at home." Suddenly I remember that, after all, the Attorney wanted to give me a thrashing and that if he didn't do so in the street that day - then perhaps he didn't have enough time? So I drop everything and make a dash for the Court, whence he will, I know, walk out in a moment. Indeed, after a few minutes he walks out with two gentlemen, and then I approach and, in silence, offer my back.
      The astonishment of the two gentlemen hovers above me, but I don't care about it - not even about the whole world! I half close my eyes, hunch up my shoulders and wait confidently - but nothing falls. Finally I splutter, stammering up from a flagstone of the sidewalk:
"How about now? Anytime, anytime, anytime . . ."
"This is some idiot," his voice floats out above me. "I'm so absent-minded! I forgot about the conference! We'll talk some other time, good-bye gentlemen, here's some change, my man! My respects!"
      And he got hurriedly into the taxi. Oh, these taxis! One of the gentlemen reached into his pocket. With a gesture of my open hand I stopped him.
"I'm neither a beggar nor an idiot. I have dignity - and I accept charity only from Attorney Kraykowski."
      I devised a plan of hypnosis, of constant, consistent pressure by means of a thousand minute facts and mystical clues, which, without penetrating consciousness, would create a subconscious state of necessity. I would draw in chalk, on the wall of the house in which she lived, an arrow and a capital K. I'm not going to detail all my intrigues, be they more or less adroit: she was enmeshed in a web of strange goings-on. A shop clerk in a fashion house addressed her - accidentally on purpose - Mrs. Kraykowski! A porter she met on the stairs said that Judge Krayewski . . . asked if his umbrella had been sent back. Krayewski - Kraykowski, Judge - Attorney; one should be careful: constant dripping wears away the stone. Nobody knew by what miracle she brought, from town, the Attorney's scent on her dress: a bracing fragrance of his violet-scented soap and eau de cologne. Or, for example, an incident such as this: late in the night the phone rings - she starts up from her sleep, runs and hears an unfamiliar, imperative voice - immediately! - and nothing more. Or a scrap of paper stuck in the door and on it - nothing, an excerpt from a poem: "Do you know the kray [country] where the lemon becomes ripe?" [4]
      But gradually I was losing hope. The Attorney stopped seeing her - it seemed that my exertions had been to no avail. Already I was anticipating the moment of my final capitulation and grew apprehensive: I felt I couldn't reconcile myself to it. I couldn't endure any offense directed at the Attorney on that point, even if he didn't bother about it. To me, it would have been the ultimate insult, wrong and disgrace. Ultimate - yes, ultimate is the word. Although I couldn't believe it, I shuddered at the thought of an inevitable, imminent conclusion.
      And yet . . . There is some benevolence, after all! And, oh, how clever they were - and incidentally, I have a grudge against the Attorney: why did he keep it this secret, didn't he know I suffered? Chance? Oh no, it wasn't chance - the heart, rather! One evening I was returning home by the Avenue [5] - when suddenly I had a hunch that I should step into the park. Actually, I should have gone to bed early, for at dawn the next day I was to nail, on the Attorney's door, a gilded nameplate with KRAYKOWSKI, ESQ. on it, but I had a hunch: in the park. I walked in - and at the far end, beyond the pond, I saw . . . oh, yes! I saw her wide-brimmed hat and his derby. Oh, you knaves, you treacherous rogues, you scoundrels! So while I was working so hard, they were meeting here secretly, unknown to me - and so artfully, too! They must have used taxis! They turned into a side alley and sat on a bench. I lay in wait in the shrubbery. I didn't expect anything, didn't think of anything - didn't want to know anything; I only squatted down behind a shrub and counted the leaves fast, without reflection, as if I weren't there at all.
      And suddenly - the Attorney embraced her, pressed and whispered:
"It's nature . . . do you hear that? A nightingale. Now, quick - as long as it sings . . . To the accompaniment, in time to the nightingale's song . . . I beseech you!"
      And then . . . oh, it was cosmic, I couldn't restrain myself - it was as if all the forces of the world had converged in holy madness upon me; as if a monstrous pyre, a pyre of bones, a sacrificial pyre or an electric charge had given me a terrible jolt - I started up and began to scream at the top of my voice, all over the park:
"Attorney Kraykowski is . . . her! Attorney Kraykowski is . . . her! Attorney Kraykowski is . . . her!"
      This touched off an alarm. One man ran, another escaped, people emerged suddenly from all sides - and I had a first seizure, a second, a third, I was bowled over and danced as never before, foaming at the mouth, all atremble and convulsed - a Bacchic dance. What happened later, I don't remember. I came to in the hospital.
      I'm feeling increasingly bad. My recent experiences have exhausted me. Tomorrow, Attorney Kraykowski is leaving secretly, unknown to me (but I know it), for a small mountain resort in the Eastern Carpathians. He wants to hole up in the mountains for a few weeks and thinks that maybe I'll forget. After him! Yes, after him! Everywhere after that guiding star of mine! But the question is: will I return from this journey alive? These emotions are too strong. I might suddenly die in the street, against a fence - in which case, a brief note should be written: send my corpse to Attorney Kraykowski's address.




 

NOTES
 

1. The Gypsy Princess or, literally, "The Czardas Princess" (Ger. "Die Csárdásfűrstin"): Operetta in three acts by Emmerich Kálmán, first performed in 1915. The czardas is a Hungarian dance in duple time; it starts slowly and ends at a brisk pace.
2. poularde: The French culinary term referring to a fat chicken or hen suitable for roasting.
3. secular: An exact translation of the word used in the original.
4. Do you know the kray where the lemon becomes ripe?: An untranslatable pun on Kraykowski; the Polish word kraj (which is pronounced just like the "kray" in Kraykowski) stands for "country", "land." The narrator quotes the opening line of Mignon's song in Wilhelm Meister's Lehrjahre (1796-1832), as paraphrased by the Polish poet Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855). Incidentally, Goethe wrote: "[. . . ] where lemons bloom": Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blűhn (/Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen glűhn . . .), etc.
5. Avenue: The author meant Aleje Jerozolimskie, one of the main streets of downtown Warsaw.





© Translation and notes by Christopher Makosa