Bacacay by Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz Page B

lips awhile?

Whose taste from ours diverges thus

Will never be on first-name terms with us!
    “Oh, but”—I whispered—“Countess . . . green peas, carrots, celery, cabbage . . .”
    “Cauliflower!” added the baron, seized by a suspicious cough.
    “Exactly!” I said in total confusion. “Exactly! . . . Cauliflower! . . . Cauliflower ... fasting . . . vegetarian vegetables . . .”
    “Well, what about the cauliflower—did you like it? Eh? Was it good? Eh? I expect you eventually understood the taste of the cauliflower?” What a tone of voice! The condescension, the barely audible but menacing lordly impatience in that tone! I began to stammer—I didn’t know what to reply—how on earth could I deny it—yet how could I confirm it?—and then (oh, I would never have believed that noble, humanitarian individual, that poetical brother was so capable of giving one to understand that lordly
favors are fickle)—then, leaning back in his armchair and stroking his long, slim leg, inherited from Duchess Pstryczyńska, he said to the ladies in a tone that literally destroyed me: “Really, my deah countess, it’s hahdly worthwhile inviting to dinnah individuals whose taste has nevah risen beyond the uttahly primitive!”
    And, paying me no more heed, they began to banter amongst themselves, their glasses in their hands, in such a way that I immediately became a quantité négligeable, —about “Alice” and her caprices, about “Gabie” and “Bubie,” about princess “Mary,” about some “Pheasants” or other, about one fellow who is awful and another woman who is vraiment impossible. They exchanged anecdotes and gossip, in a few words, in a higher language, with the aid of expressions such as “crazy,” “fantastic,” “mahvelous,” “fahcical,” and even frequently resorting to crude curses such as “bothah!” or “buggah!” till it appeared that this sort of conversation represented the apogee of human ability, while I with my Beauty, my humanity and all the topics of the thinking reed had in some inexplicable fashion been pushed aside like a useless piece of furniture, and had no reason to open my mouth. They were also telling in a few words some aristocratic jokes that caused extraordinary jollity, but at which I—who did not know their genealogy —could barely force myself to smile. Dear Lord, what could have happened?! What a cruel and sudden transformation! Why were they one way over the pumpkin soup, and now completely different? Was it really with them that not so long ago I had been disseminating humanitarian brilliance in the utmost harmony—moments before, over the pumpkin soup? So where had it come from so suddenly and without any visible cause—all this disastrous
ingredient, all this alienness and iciness, this ironic humor, this incomprehensible inclination to painful mockery of appearance itself, this distance, this remoteness, rendering them quite unapproachable! I was unable to explain such a metamorphosis—and the marchioness’ mention of “our circle” brought to my mind all those awful things that were said in my own middle-class sphere and to which I never lent any credence—about the double face of the aristocracy and its inner life, locked away from undesirable eyes.
    No longer able to tolerate my own silence—which with every moment was thrusting me deeper into a terrible abyss—I finally said to the countess out of the blue, like a defunct echo of the past:
    “I’m sorry to interrupt . . . Countess, you promised that you would dedicate to me your triolets: ‘Musings of my Soul.’”
    “How ’s that?” she asked, not having heard me, and in high spirits. “What was that? You said something?”
    “I’m terribly sorry—you promised, Countess, that you would dedicate to me your work entitled ‘Musings of my Soul.’”
    “Ah, yes, that’s right,” replied the countess absently, but with her usual courtesy (her usual courtesy? Or was it a