Ferdydurke (30 page)

Shaking hands, kissing on the cheeks, bumping into body parts, making declarations of joy and hospitality, they take us to the living room, seat us on old Biedermeiers, inquire about my health, "are you well?"—I inquire about their health in turn, and conversation about various illnesses unfolds, gets hold of us, and won't let go. Auntie has a heart condition, uncle Konstanty has rheumatism, Zosia recently succumbed to anemia and she's prone to colds, her tonsils are not up to snuff, there's a lack of means for definitive treatment. Zygmunt is also prone to colds and had an awful bout with his ear as well, he was exposed to drafts a month ago when autumn brought with it winds and damp weather. That's enough—it seemed unhealthy to have to listen, immediately on arrival, to all the illnesses the family has had, but as soon as the conversation waned:
"Sophie, parle"
auntie whispered, and Zosia, to keep the conversation going, to the detriment of her charms, pulled out other illnesses. Sciatica, rheumatism, arthritis, aches in the bones, gout, coughs and colds, tonsillitis, flu, cancer and neurodermatitis, toothache, tooth fillings, lazy bowels, neurasthenia, liver, kidneys, Carlsbad, Professor Kalitowicz, and Dr. Pistak. It almost stopped at Pistak, but no, to keep the conversation going, my aunt brings up Dr. Vistak, that his hearing is superior to Pistak's, and back to Vistak, Pistak, percussion, diseases of the ear, of the throat, respiratory diseases, heart valve insufficiency, consultations, gallstones, chronic dyspepsia, asthenia, and blood cells. I couldn't forgive myself for having asked about their health. And yet I couldn't have not asked about their health. Zosia especially was worn out by the topic, and I saw how it pained her to expose her own scrofula, just to keep the conversation going, but it would have been bad manners to treat the newly arrived young men to silence. Was this the usual mechanism, was this how they always caught anyone who arrived in the countryside, was it never with anybody that they began in the countryside, other than through illnesses? It was a calamity for the landed gentry that age-honored good manners required them to establish relations from a rheumy reference point, and that's why they always looked so pale and rheumy in the light of an oil lamp, little dogs on their laps. Oh, countryside! Countryside! The old country manor! Age-old laws and age-old mysteries! How different from those of city thoroughfares and the crowds on Marszalkowska Street.

It was only my aunt who, out of kindness and without being forced, wallowed in my uncle's subfebrile states and bloody diarrhea. The chambermaid, red-faced, wearing a little apron, came in and turned up the lamp. Kneadus, saying little, was impressed with the abundance of servants and with the family's two richly embroidered sashes from Stuck. There was great nobility in all this—but I didn't know whether my uncle also remembered me as a child. They treated us somewhat like children, but they treated themselves similarly, in a kindergarten style inherited from their ancestors. I had some vague recollection of playing under a scratched table, and the fringe of a worn-out sofa standing in a corner loomed out of the distant past. Did I chew on it, eat it, braid it—or more likely dip it in a little tumbler and smear it—with what, when? Or maybe I stuck it in my nose? My aunt sat on a sofa according to the old school—erect, bosom thrust forward, head slightly back, Zosia sat slumped and sickened by the conversation, her fingers intertwined, Zygmunt, his elbows on the arm rests, stared at the tips of his shoes, while my uncle, tugging at a dachshund, stared at an autumn fly traversing the white and immense ceiling. Outside the wind blew hard, the trees in front of the house rustled with a few remaining fragile leaves, the shutters creaked, inside the air moved slightly—and I was overcome by a premonition of a totally new and hypertrophied manifestation of the mug. The dogs howled. And when will I howl? That I would howl was a given. The gentry's strange and unreal customs of being pampered and mollycoddled by something, hypertrophied in an unimaginable vacuum, their languor and softness, fussiness, politeness, refinement, pride, tenderness, nicety, and lurking quirkiness in each and every word—filled me with mistrust and anxiety. But what was more dangerous—a solitary late-fall fly on the ceiling, an aunt with her memories of childhood, Kneadus and his farmhand, illnesses, the fringe on a sofa, or the whole lot, bunched up and lumped onto the tip of a small spike? Anticipating the unavoidable mug, I sat quietly on my ancestral Biedermeier, a memento inherited from my forebears, while my aunt sat on hers and, to keep the conversation going, began groaning about drafts, that they're a terrible thing for one's bones at this time of the year. Zosia, an ordinary young woman, not in any way different from other young women of which there are thousands in our country manors, burst out laughing in an attempt to keep the conversation going—and everyone burst out laughing with a laughter of sociable, polite bewilderment— and they stopped laughing... For whom did they laugh, perchance, for whom?

But uncle Konstanty, who was tall and lean, effete, balding, with a long, thin nose, gaunt fingers, thin lips and delicate nostrils, highly polished manners, experienced in life, reclined in his chair with extraordinary ease and nonchalant elegance, and rested his feet, clad in suede shoes, upon the table.

"Drafts," he said, "yes, we had them. But they're gone now."

The fly buzzed.

"Kostie," auntie exclaimed tenderly, "stop fretting." And she gave him a piece of candy.

But he fretted anyway and yawned—he opened his mouth wide, till I saw his farthest cigarette-stained yellowish teeth, and he blatantly yawned twice more with the utmost nonchalance.

"Tereperepumpum," he mumbled, "a dog once danced in a backyard, and a she-cat laughed so hard!"

He pulled out a silver cigarette case and tapped it with his fingers, but it fell to the floor. He didn't pick it up, he yawned again—at whom did he yawn? For whom did he yawn? His family accompanied his actions in silence, sitting on their Biedermeiers. Francis, the old servant, entered.

"Dinner is served," he announced; he wore a frock coat.

"Dinner," auntie said.

"Dinner," Zosia said.

"Dinner," Zygmunt said.

"My cigarette case," my uncle said. The servant picked it up—we moved to the dining room, which was in the style of Henry IV, old portraits hung on the walls, in a corner a samovar was hissing. They served baked ham in a crust, and canned peas. Conversation sounded again. "Dig in," Konstanty said, helping himself to a little mustard and some horseradish (but against whom did he do this?), "there's nothing better than ham baked in a crust, if properly prepared. Simon's is the only place where you can get good ham, the only place, tereperepumpum, is Simon's! Let's have a drink. A jigger."

"Let's have a swig," Zygmunt said, and my uncle asked: "Do you remember the ham they served before the war on Erywahska Street?" "Ham is hard to digest," auntie answered. "Zosia, why so little, no appetite again?" Zosia answered, but no one listened because she obviously did it just to say something. Konstanty ate rather loudly, though with style, punctiliously; working his fingers over his plate he would take a rasher, add some mustard or horseradish, maybe salt or pepper, butter a slice of toast, and shove the ham into his gaping mouth—once he even spat out a piece of it because he didn't like it. The valet immediately removed it. Against whom did he spit it out? Against whom did he butter the toast? Auntie ate kind-heartedly, rather copiously but a thin slice at a time, Zosia was shoving it in, Zygmunt ate listlessly, while the servants waited on us t i p t o e i n g. Suddenly Kneadus stopped eating, his fork halfway to his mouth, and he froze, his gaze darkened, his mug turned ashen-gray, his lips parted, and a most beautiful mandolin smile blossomed on his horrible mug. A smile of welcome, of greeting, hail, so you're here, I'm here too—he rested his hands on the table and leaned forward, his upper lip rose as if to sob; but he didn't sob, he just leaned farther. He had spotted a farmhand! A farmhand was in the room! The valet! The valet was the farmhand! I had no doubt—the valet serving the ham and peas was the farmhand of his dreams.

A farmhand! Kneadus' age, no more than eighteen, neither short nor tall, neither ugly nor handsome—fair-haired but not blond. He bustled and waited on us barefoot, a napkin slung over his left arm, no collar, his shirt buttoned at the neck with a stud, a farmhand's usual Sunday best. He had a mug all right—but his mug wasn't anything like Kneadus' awful mug, it was not an artificially created mug, but a natural, rough-hewn, ordinary peasant mug. It was not a face that had turned into a mug, but a mug that had never ever had the honor of being a face—his mug was as dumb as a leg! He wasn't worthy of having a respectable face, just as he wasn't worthy of being called blond and handsome—a valet unworthy of being a buder! Without gloves and barefoot, he changed the smart set's plates, which surprised no one—a young man not worthy of a frock coat. A farmhand! . . . What bad luck had brought him here, to my aunt's and uncle's house? "Here we go," I thought, chewing the ham that now tasted like rubber, "it's starting..." But to keep the conversation going they began to urge us to eat, I had to try some of the pear compote—and again there was a round of small pretzels with tea, I had to say "thank you," eat candied plums that stuck in my throat, and auntie kept apologizing for such a modest dinner.

"Tereperepumpum," said uncle Konstanty, who sprawled at the table and, opening his mouth wide, lazily tossed in a plummie, which he had picked up with two fingers. "Eat up! Eat up! To your hearts' content, my dears!" He swallowed it, smacked his lips—and said, as if with a deliberate display of satiety:

"Tomorrow I'll lay off six grooms, without pay, because I have no money!"

"Oh, Kostie!" auntie exclaimed, all heart. But he replied.

"Cheese-e-oh, please."

Against whom did he say that? The servants waited on us tiptoeing. Kneadus stared, he drank with his eyes that uncon-torted peasant's mug, meadowy and dumb, he imbibed it as if it were the one and only drink in the whole world. TheValet tripped under that onerous and distracted stare, almost spilling tea on auntie's head. Old Francis lightly boxed his ear.

"Oh, Francis," auntie said kindly.

"He better watch out!" my uncle mumbled, and he took out a cigarette. The valet sprang to him with a light. My uncle let out a cloud of smoke through his thin lips, cousin Zygmunt let another cloud pass between his equally thin lips, and we moved to the living room, where everyone sat on his or her priceless Biedermeier. The pricelessness filled us with terrible luxury from below. Foul weather howled outside the windows; cousin Zygmunt, mildly animated, suggested:

"A little game of bridge, perhaps?"

But Kneadus didn't know how to play, so Zygmunt fell silent and just sat there. Zosia mentioned something about the weather, that it often rains in the fall, auntie asked me about auntie Jadzia. The conversation was petering out—my uncle crossed his legs, raised his head, and looked at the ceiling where a listless fly wandered to and fro—and he yawned, showing us his palate and a row of cigarette-stained, yellowish teeth. Zygmunt silently busied himself with slow leg-wagging as he tracked glints of light across the tip of his shoe, auntie and Zosia sat with their hands in their laps, a little pinscher sat on a table and watched Zygmunt's leg, while Kneadus sat in the shadow, his head resting on his palm, and he was awfully quiet. Then auntie perked up, ordered the servants to prepare the guest room, to place hot-water bottles in our beds, and to bring us a small dish of nuts and fruit preserves as a nightcap. My uncle, on hearing this, said casually that he too would like some, whereupon the servants swiftly obliged. We ate, though we were already full—we couldn't refuse, it was all on a tray, ready to be eaten, and also because they kept insisting and inviting us to eat. Kneadus declined over and over, he definitely didn't want any fruit preserves, and I had an idea why— because of the farmhand—but, out of the kindness of her heart auntie spooned him a double portion, and she offered me candy from a small bag. It's all so sweet, all too sweet, sickly-sweet, but with a dessert plate in front of me, I can't say no, I'm nauseous, my childhood, auntie, short pants, family, the fly, the pinscher, the farmhand, Kneadus, my full stomach, it's stuffy here, the weather is foul outside the window, glut and excess of everything, it's all too much, dreadful wealth, the Biedermeier satiates me from below. But I can't get up and say goodnight, not without saying something first... we finally try, but they stop us, inviting us to eat more. Against whom does uncle Konstanty stuff one more strawberry between his sugared and weary lips? Suddenly Zosia sneezes, and this gives us an out. Goodbyes, bows, thanks, bumping into body parts. The chambermaid leads us up wooden, winding stairs that I seem to remember... Behind us walks a servant with nuts and fruit preserves on a tray. It's stifling and warm. I burp, the fruit preserves repeat in my mouth. Kneadus also burps. The country manor...

When the door closed behind the chambermaid he asked:

"Did you see that?"

He sat down and hid his face in his hands.

"You're talking about the valet?" I replied, feigning indifference. I quickly pulled down the blind—the lit window in the dark expanses of the wooded grounds was scaring me.

"I have to talk to him. I'll go down! Or, no—ring for him! He's surely assigned to serve us. Ring twice."

"What for?" I tried to dissuade him. "There can be complications. Remember that these are my aunt and uncle . . . Kneadus!" I exclaimed, "don't ring, tell me first what you want with him?"

He pressed the bell.

"Damn it!" he growled, "as if the fruit preserves weren't enough, they've left us apples and pears. Hide them in the closet. Throw away the hot-water bottles. I don't want him to see it all..."

He was furious with the kind of fury behind which lurks the fear of one's fate, the fury of the most intimate human affairs.

"Joey," he trembled as he whispered warmly, sincerely, "Joey, did you see that, he's got a real mug—not one of those rigged-up ones, this is an ordinary mug! A mug without any face-pulling! A classic farmhand, I won't find a better one anywhere. Help me! I can't manage it all by myself!"