everything was lost, and that we were heading full-steam toward that which I dreaded most, toward utter freakishness and grotesqueness. Meanwhile, even those who had until now been listlessly repeating "Could Syphonus perchance . . ." were seized with a wild and sick curiosity. Nostrils flaring, cheeks burning red, it was clear that the face-pulling duel would indeed be a duel with no holds barred, unto death, and not merely a duel of empty words! They surrounded the two contestants and shouted into the heavily laden air:
"Go ahead! Stick it to him! Get on with it! Go for it!"
Only Kopyrda calmly stretched himself, picked up his notes, and walked away on those legs of his...
And Syphon sat on that lad of his—all gloom and doom, as puffed up as a hen sitting on eggs—one could see that he was actually a little scared and would have preferred to back out! Pyzo, however, swiftly recognized what terrific chances Syphon's lofty beliefs and principles gave him. "We've got him!" he whispered into Syphon's ear to spur him on. "Don't be yellow! Think of your principles! You have your principles, and for the sake of these principles as such, you'll easily be able to pull faces, any number of them, while he has no principles, and he'll have to pull faces for his own sake, and not for the sake of principles, as such." As a result of these whisperings Syphon's face began to relax and soon to glow peacefully, because his principles were indeed empowering him to pull any number of faces, at any time. Mizdral and Hopek saw what was happening and, taking Kneadus aside, begged him not to risk certain defeat.
"Don't bring ruin on yourself and on all of us, better surrender right now—he's much better at pulling faces than you are—pretend, Kneadie, that you're sick, pass out, it'll blow over, we'll find excuses for you!"
But Kneadus merely answered:
"I can't, the die is cast! Off with you! Off! Do you want me to chicken out? Get those gawkers out of here! They're getting on my nerves! No one is to watch me from the side except the seconds and the umpire." But his face fell, and his initial doggedness gave way to obvious stage fright, which contrasted with Syphon's calm self-confidence so starkly that Mizdral whispered: "He's done for," and the others shuddered and slipped out of the classroom in silence, closing the door carefully behind them. Suddenly we found ourselves in the deserted classroom, behind closed doors, the seven of us, Syphon Pylaszczkewicz and Kneadus, Mizdral, Hopek, Pyzo, someone called Guzek (Syphon's other second), and of course myself in the middle as the superarbiter, as the dumbfounded superarbiter of all arbiters. And now Pyzo's voice resounded, sarcastic and awe-inspiring, and, looking slightly pale, he read the conditions of the engagement from a piece of paper:
The contestants shall stand facing each other and shall fire a salvo of faces, and to each and every one of Pylaszczkiewicz's inspiring and beatific faces, Kneadalski shall respond with an ugly and demolishing counterface. The faces—as personal as possible, totally individual, and intrinsically his own, as wounding and shattering as possible — shall be administered without a silencer, to the very end.
He fell silent—while Syphon and Kneadus took up their assigned positions, Syphon rubbed his cheeks, Kneadus slid his jaw from side to side—then Mizdral said through his chattering teeth:
"You may begin!"
And just as he said "you may begin," just at that moment when he said "begin," reality finally overstepped its bounds, all that was nonessential climaxed into a nightmare, and the outlandish event turned into a total dream—while I was stuck there in the middle like a fly caught in a web, unable to move. It seemed as if by way of long and hard exercise, the point at which one loses one's face had finally been reached. The empty phrase became a grimace, and the grimace-vacuous, sterile, idle, and futile—grabbed one and would not let go. It
"Go ahead! Stick it to him! Get on with it! Go for it!"
Only Kopyrda calmly stretched himself, picked up his notes, and walked away on those legs of his...
And Syphon sat on that lad of his—all gloom and doom, as puffed up as a hen sitting on eggs—one could see that he was actually a little scared and would have preferred to back out! Pyzo, however, swiftly recognized what terrific chances Syphon's lofty beliefs and principles gave him. "We've got him!" he whispered into Syphon's ear to spur him on. "Don't be yellow! Think of your principles! You have your principles, and for the sake of these principles as such, you'll easily be able to pull faces, any number of them, while he has no principles, and he'll have to pull faces for his own sake, and not for the sake of principles, as such." As a result of these whisperings Syphon's face began to relax and soon to glow peacefully, because his principles were indeed empowering him to pull any number of faces, at any time. Mizdral and Hopek saw what was happening and, taking Kneadus aside, begged him not to risk certain defeat.
"Don't bring ruin on yourself and on all of us, better surrender right now—he's much better at pulling faces than you are—pretend, Kneadie, that you're sick, pass out, it'll blow over, we'll find excuses for you!"
But Kneadus merely answered:
"I can't, the die is cast! Off with you! Off! Do you want me to chicken out? Get those gawkers out of here! They're getting on my nerves! No one is to watch me from the side except the seconds and the umpire." But his face fell, and his initial doggedness gave way to obvious stage fright, which contrasted with Syphon's calm self-confidence so starkly that Mizdral whispered: "He's done for," and the others shuddered and slipped out of the classroom in silence, closing the door carefully behind them. Suddenly we found ourselves in the deserted classroom, behind closed doors, the seven of us, Syphon Pylaszczkewicz and Kneadus, Mizdral, Hopek, Pyzo, someone called Guzek (Syphon's other second), and of course myself in the middle as the superarbiter, as the dumbfounded superarbiter of all arbiters. And now Pyzo's voice resounded, sarcastic and awe-inspiring, and, looking slightly pale, he read the conditions of the engagement from a piece of paper:
The contestants shall stand facing each other and shall fire a salvo of faces, and to each and every one of Pylaszczkiewicz's inspiring and beatific faces, Kneadalski shall respond with an ugly and demolishing counterface. The faces—as personal as possible, totally individual, and intrinsically his own, as wounding and shattering as possible — shall be administered without a silencer, to the very end.
He fell silent—while Syphon and Kneadus took up their assigned positions, Syphon rubbed his cheeks, Kneadus slid his jaw from side to side—then Mizdral said through his chattering teeth:
"You may begin!"
And just as he said "you may begin," just at that moment when he said "begin," reality finally overstepped its bounds, all that was nonessential climaxed into a nightmare, and the outlandish event turned into a total dream—while I was stuck there in the middle like a fly caught in a web, unable to move. It seemed as if by way of long and hard exercise, the point at which one loses one's face had finally been reached. The empty phrase became a grimace, and the grimace-vacuous, sterile, idle, and futile—grabbed one and would not let go. It
Similar Books
