Bacacay by Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz Page A

really not taste it . . . young man?” asked the marchioness, without interrupting her consumption even for a moment.
    “You’re not a gastronome,” declared the baron, as if with a hint of polite sympathy, “whereas I . . . Et moi, je ne suis pas gastronome — je suis gastrosophe! ” And did my ears deceive me—or was it the case that as he pronounced that French platitude, something swelled within him, so that he threw out the last word “gastrosophe” from
bulging cheeks with an exceptional exaltation he had never shown before?
    “It’s well seasoned, no doubt . . . very tasty, yes, very . . . but . . .” I mumbled.
    “But? . . . But what? So you truly cannot taste it? This delicate freshness, this . . . mmm . . . indefinable firmness, this . . . characteristic pepperiness . . . this scent, this alcohol? But my deah sir” (this was the first time since we had known each other that I had been addressed in the aristocratic manner as ‘deah sir’) “surely you are pretending? Surely you are meahly attempting to alahm us?”
    “Don’t talk to him!” the countess interrupted flirtatiously, convulsed with laughter. “Don’t talk to him! After all, he’ll never understand!”
    “Style, young man, is imbibed with one’s mother’s milk,” the marchioness lisped benevolently, reminding me, it seemed, that my mother’s maiden name was Turky—may she rest in peace!
    And everyone abandoned the continuation of the dinner and dragged their full stomachs into the gilded Louis XVI boudoir, where they sprawled in the softest armchairs they could find and began laughing—and there was no doubt whatsoever it was me they were laughing at, just as if I had given them cause for especial merriment. I had long rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy at tea parties and benefit concerts—but, by my word of honor, I had never seen such behavior, nor such an abrupt change, such a transformation unmotivated by anything at all. Not knowing whether to sit or stand, whether to be serious or rather faire bonne mine à mauvais jeu and give a foolish smile, I tried vaguely and timidly to return to Arcadia, that is, to the pumpkin soup:

    Returning to the matter of Beauty . . .
    “Enough, enough!” exclaimed Baron de Apfelbaum, holding his hands over his ears. “What a tedious fellow! Now it’s time to have fun! S’encanailler! I’ll sing you something better! From an operetta!”
    This greenhorn is a funny bird!

He doesn’t understand a word!

I’ll teach him to know the things he should:

What’s beautiful’s not what’s beautiful, what’s beautiful is what

tastes good.

Taste! Taste! Good taste!

That’s where Beauty’s based!
    “Bravo!” cried the countess, and the marchioness chimed in, baring her gums in a old woman’s giggle: “Bravo! Cocasse! Charmant! ”
    “But it seems to me . . . that this . . . that this is not right . . .” I stuttered, yet my stupefied gaze was thoroughly out of keeping with my formal attire.
    “We aristocrats”—the marchioness leaned over to me good-naturedly —“in our innermost circle profess a great freedom of manners; at such times, as you have heard, we occasionally even use coarse expressions and we can be frivolous, often even vulgar in our own way. But there is no need to be appalled! You must get used to us!”
    “We’re not so feahful,” added the baron patronizingly, “though our vulgahness is hahder to come to terms with than our refinement!”

    “No, we are not fearful!” squealed the countess. “We won’t eat anyone alive!”
    “We won’t eat anyone, apart from . . .”
    “Apaht from . . . !”
    “ Fi donc, ha ha ha,” they burst out laughing, throwing their embroidered cushions in the air, and the countess sang:
    It must be faced—

Everything’s a matter of taste!

Everything’s a matter of style!

For a lobster to be good you have to torture it,

For a turkey to be fat it has to hurt a bit.

D’you know the taste of my