Bacacay (12 page)
Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz
“Listen how the rain’s lashing mercilessly,” lisped the marchioness naively.
(Lashing?
Certainly it was lashing!
It must have been lashing down perfectly out there.)—“Oh, listen to the tap-tap of individual raindrops, listen to that tap-tap-tap, listen, listen there if you please to those raindrops!”
(Lashing?
Certainly it was lashing!
It must have been lashing down perfectly out there.)—“Oh, listen to the tap-tap of individual raindrops, listen to that tap-tap-tap, listen, listen there if you please to those raindrops!”
“Oh, what awful weather, what a terrible wind,” cried the countess.
“Oh, oh—ha ha ha—what a terrible storm!
It’s unpleasant even to look at!
The very sight of it makes me want to laugh and gives me goose flesh!”
“Oh, oh—ha ha ha—what a terrible storm!
It’s unpleasant even to look at!
The very sight of it makes me want to laugh and gives me goose flesh!”
“Ha ha ha,” echoed the baron, “look how splendidly it all streams down!
Look at the different arabesques the water forms!
Look how that little bit of mud spreads so wonderfully, how greasily it sticks, how it’s smeared, just like Cumberland sauce; and how that rain keeps thrashing and thrashing—it thrashes so wonderfully, and that little wind keeps stinging and stinging—how it browns, how it pinches, how it crumbles so wonderfully!
It quite makes one’s mouth water, I swear!”
Look at the different arabesques the water forms!
Look how that little bit of mud spreads so wonderfully, how greasily it sticks, how it’s smeared, just like Cumberland sauce; and how that rain keeps thrashing and thrashing—it thrashes so wonderfully, and that little wind keeps stinging and stinging—how it browns, how it pinches, how it crumbles so wonderfully!
It quite makes one’s mouth water, I swear!”
“By my wohd, it’s extraohdinarily tasty, extraohdinarily tasty!”
“Extremely stylish!”
“Just like
côtelette de volaille!”
côtelette de volaille!”
“Or
fricassée à la Heine
rathah!”
fricassée à la Heine
rathah!”
“Or lobstah in ragout!”
And in the wake of these bons mots, tossed out with the ease of manner of which only the old aristocratic families are capable, there followed movements and gestures that .
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whose meaning I would have preferred not to understand, curled up as I was in my
armchair, completely motionless.
It was not only that the ear, the little nose, the neck, and the slender foot were entering a fanatical state of frenzy—in addition the banker had drawn cigarette smoke deep into his lungs and was blowing small blue rings in the air.
If only it were just one or two of them, dear Lord!
But he kept blowing and blowing, one ring after another, forming his mouth into a little snout—and the countess and the marchioness were applauding!
And every ring rose upward and dissipated slowly, in harmonious coils!
The long, white, serpentine hand of the countess rested in the meantime on the patterned satin of the armchair—her nervous fetlock wiggled beneath the table, evil as a viper, black and venomous.
I began to feel distinctly out of sorts.
As if all this were not enough—I swear I am not exaggerating!—the baron went so far in his effrontery as to raise his upper lip, take a toothpick out of his pocket and begin to pick his teeth, yes, his teeth—rich, rotten, and densely interspersed with gold!
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whose meaning I would have preferred not to understand, curled up as I was in my
armchair, completely motionless.
It was not only that the ear, the little nose, the neck, and the slender foot were entering a fanatical state of frenzy—in addition the banker had drawn cigarette smoke deep into his lungs and was blowing small blue rings in the air.
If only it were just one or two of them, dear Lord!
But he kept blowing and blowing, one ring after another, forming his mouth into a little snout—and the countess and the marchioness were applauding!
And every ring rose upward and dissipated slowly, in harmonious coils!
The long, white, serpentine hand of the countess rested in the meantime on the patterned satin of the armchair—her nervous fetlock wiggled beneath the table, evil as a viper, black and venomous.
I began to feel distinctly out of sorts.
As if all this were not enough—I swear I am not exaggerating!—the baron went so far in his effrontery as to raise his upper lip, take a toothpick out of his pocket and begin to pick his teeth, yes, his teeth—rich, rotten, and densely interspersed with gold!
Dumbfounded, utterly ignorant of what to do or where to run, I turned imploringly to the marchioness, who up till this point had shown me the most kindness, and who at the dinner table had so movingly admired Pity and the children suffering from rickets—and I began to say something about pity—virtually begging for pity.
“Milady,” I said, “you who bestowed such devotion on the poor children!
Milady!—For the love of God!”
Do you know how she answered?
She gazed at me in surprise with her pale pupils—she wiped away the tears produced by an excess of jollity, and then, as if recalling, she said:
“Milady,” I said, “you who bestowed such devotion on the poor children!
Milady!—For the love of God!”
Do you know how she answered?
She gazed at me in surprise with her pale pupils—she wiped away the tears produced by an excess of jollity, and then, as if recalling, she said:
“Oh, you’re speaking of my little rickety ones?
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Oh yes, it’s true, when you see them moving around awkwardly on those
crooked little legs of theirs, stumping about and falling over, it makes a person feel hale again!
Old but hale!
Long ago I used to go horse riding, in a black riding dress and gleaming boots, on English thoroughbreds, while now—
hélas, les beaux temps sont passés
—now that I no longer can, old as I am, I ride oh so merrily on those crooked little rickety children of mine!”
And suddenly her hand reached down and I jumped back, for I swear she intended to show me her old but straight, healthy, still hale leg!
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Oh yes, it’s true, when you see them moving around awkwardly on those
crooked little legs of theirs, stumping about and falling over, it makes a person feel hale again!
Old but hale!
Long ago I used to go horse riding, in a black riding dress and gleaming boots, on English thoroughbreds, while now—
hélas, les beaux temps sont passés
—now that I no longer can, old as I am, I ride oh so merrily on those crooked little rickety children of mine!”
And suddenly her hand reached down and I jumped back, for I swear she intended to show me her old but straight, healthy, still hale leg!
“For the love of Christ!”
I exclaimed, barely clinging to life.
“What about Love, Pity, Beauty, the prisoners, the cripples, the haggard retired schoolmistresses .
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I exclaimed, barely clinging to life.
“What about Love, Pity, Beauty, the prisoners, the cripples, the haggard retired schoolmistresses .
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“Oh, but we remember them, we do!”
said the countess with a laugh that sent shivers down my spine.
“Those poor dear schoolmistresses.”
said the countess with a laugh that sent shivers down my spine.
“Those poor dear schoolmistresses.”
“We do!”
the old marchioness reassured me.
the old marchioness reassured me.
“We do!”
Baron de Apfelbaum concurred.
“We do!”—I went quite numb with fright.
“Those deaah, good prisonahs!”
Baron de Apfelbaum concurred.
“We do!”—I went quite numb with fright.
“Those deaah, good prisonahs!”
They were not looking at me—they were looking in the direction of the ceiling, tipping their heads back as if this alone could check the violent contractions of their cheek muscles.
Ha!
I was no longer in any doubt; I had finally understood where I was, and I was overcome by an uncontrollable tremor in my lower jaw.
And the rain was still lashing against the windows like little whips.
Ha!
I was no longer in any doubt; I had finally understood where I was, and I was overcome by an uncontrollable tremor in my lower jaw.
And the rain was still lashing against the windows like little whips.
“But God, God exists!”
I finally stammered, with the last of my strength, desperately seeking something to hold onto; “God exists,” I added more quietly, for the Lord’s name had rung out so inappropriately that everyone fell silent, and their faces showed all
the ominous signs of a faux pas having been committed—and I merely waited to be shown the door!
I finally stammered, with the last of my strength, desperately seeking something to hold onto; “God exists,” I added more quietly, for the Lord’s name had rung out so inappropriately that everyone fell silent, and their faces showed all
the ominous signs of a faux pas having been committed—and I merely waited to be shown the door!
“Ah yes,” replied Baron de Apfelbaum after a moment, pulverizing me with his unparalleled tact.—“Cod?—cod exists—it swims in the sea!”
Who could have come up with a retort ?
Who would not have been, as the expression goes, gobstruck?
I fell silent—and the marchioness sat at the piano and the baron and the countess began to dance a caper—and every movement of theirs oozed such taste, style, elegance, that—ha!—I wanted to flee, but how could I possibly withdraw without taking my leave?
And how could I take my leave while they were dancing?
So I watched from the corner and truly—I had never ever imagined such infinite shamelessness, such brazenness!
I cannot do violence to my own nature in describing what went on—no, no one can demand that of me.
Suffice it to say that when the countess moved her slim leg forward, the baron pulled his back, many, many times—and this with an air that was unutterably urbane, wearing expressions that suggested the dance was just the most ordinary Milongo tango—while at the piano the marchioness was producing runs, arpeggios, and trills!
But I already knew what it was—it had been forced violently on my soul—it was a dance of cannibals!
A dance of cannibals!—with taste, style, and elegance—and I searched only for an idol, an African monster with a square skull, turned-out lips, round cheekbones, a flattened nose, raised eyebrows, overseeing the debauch from somewhere up above.
And, looking toward the window, behind the pane I saw precisely something of
this kind—a round child’s face with a flattened nose, raised brows, protruding ears, emaciated and feverish, and staring so, with all the cosmic idiocy of an African idol, with such otherworldly rapture—that for the next hour (or two), like a hypnotized man I could not tear my eyes from the buttons of my vest.
Who would not have been, as the expression goes, gobstruck?
I fell silent—and the marchioness sat at the piano and the baron and the countess began to dance a caper—and every movement of theirs oozed such taste, style, elegance, that—ha!—I wanted to flee, but how could I possibly withdraw without taking my leave?
And how could I take my leave while they were dancing?
So I watched from the corner and truly—I had never ever imagined such infinite shamelessness, such brazenness!
I cannot do violence to my own nature in describing what went on—no, no one can demand that of me.
Suffice it to say that when the countess moved her slim leg forward, the baron pulled his back, many, many times—and this with an air that was unutterably urbane, wearing expressions that suggested the dance was just the most ordinary Milongo tango—while at the piano the marchioness was producing runs, arpeggios, and trills!
But I already knew what it was—it had been forced violently on my soul—it was a dance of cannibals!
A dance of cannibals!—with taste, style, and elegance—and I searched only for an idol, an African monster with a square skull, turned-out lips, round cheekbones, a flattened nose, raised eyebrows, overseeing the debauch from somewhere up above.
And, looking toward the window, behind the pane I saw precisely something of
this kind—a round child’s face with a flattened nose, raised brows, protruding ears, emaciated and feverish, and staring so, with all the cosmic idiocy of an African idol, with such otherworldly rapture—that for the next hour (or two), like a hypnotized man I could not tear my eyes from the buttons of my vest.
And when finally at dawn I stole away, down the slippery steps of the porch, in the graying drizzle, I noticed a body lying in a bed of withered irises beneath the window.
It was, of course, a corpse, the corpse of an eight-year-old boy with flaxen hair and a snub nose, barefoot, so emaciated that one could say he was thoroughly consumed—there was barely a scrap of meat left here and there under his filthy skin.
Ha—so the unfortunate Bolek Cauliflower had strayed as far as this place, drawn by the bright windows visible from far off in the sodden fields.
And when I ran out through the gate, from somewhere or other appeared Philip the cook, white, in a little round cap, with his ruddy beard and cross-eyed gaze, skinny and refined, with the refinement of a master of the culinary arts who first cuts the throats of chickens so as later to serve them at table in a sauce—and fawning, bowing, wagging his tail, he said obsequiously: “I hope, milord, that the meatless dinner was to your taste!”
It was, of course, a corpse, the corpse of an eight-year-old boy with flaxen hair and a snub nose, barefoot, so emaciated that one could say he was thoroughly consumed—there was barely a scrap of meat left here and there under his filthy skin.
Ha—so the unfortunate Bolek Cauliflower had strayed as far as this place, drawn by the bright windows visible from far off in the sodden fields.
And when I ran out through the gate, from somewhere or other appeared Philip the cook, white, in a little round cap, with his ruddy beard and cross-eyed gaze, skinny and refined, with the refinement of a master of the culinary arts who first cuts the throats of chickens so as later to serve them at table in a sauce—and fawning, bowing, wagging his tail, he said obsequiously: “I hope, milord, that the meatless dinner was to your taste!”
Virginity
There’s nothing more artificial than descriptions of young girls and the fanciful comparisons that go along with them.
Lips like cherries, breasts like little roses; oh, if only it were enough to buy some fruit and flowers at the store!
And if lips really did have the taste of ripe cherries, who on earth would have the courage to be in love?
Who on earth would be tempted by a caramel—that is, a sweet kiss?—But hush, enough, it’s a secret, taboo, let’s not say too much about lips.—Alice’s elbow, seen through the prism of the emotions, was at times a smooth white virginal point, passing into the warmer tones of the arm; at others, when her arm dangled passively, it was a sweet round dimple, a quiet little nook, a side altar of her body.
Aside from this Alice resembled any other daughter of a retired major brought up by a loving mother in a suburban cottage.
Like others, she occasionally stroked her elbow,
lost in thought, and like others she learned early on to poke about in the sand with her slender foot.
Lips like cherries, breasts like little roses; oh, if only it were enough to buy some fruit and flowers at the store!
And if lips really did have the taste of ripe cherries, who on earth would have the courage to be in love?
Who on earth would be tempted by a caramel—that is, a sweet kiss?—But hush, enough, it’s a secret, taboo, let’s not say too much about lips.—Alice’s elbow, seen through the prism of the emotions, was at times a smooth white virginal point, passing into the warmer tones of the arm; at others, when her arm dangled passively, it was a sweet round dimple, a quiet little nook, a side altar of her body.
Aside from this Alice resembled any other daughter of a retired major brought up by a loving mother in a suburban cottage.
Like others, she occasionally stroked her elbow,
lost in thought, and like others she learned early on to poke about in the sand with her slender foot.
But never mind that .
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The life of an adolescent girl can be compared neither with the life of an engineer or lawyer, nor with the life of a housewife and mother.
Take, for instance, the longing and murmuring of the blood, perpetual as the ticking of a watch.
Somewhere the idea was already once expressed that there is nothing stranger than being alluring.
It’s not easy to look after a being whose reason for existing is to entice; yet Alice was well-protected by her canary Fifi, by her mother, the major’s wife, and by her Doberman pinscher Bibi, whom she led on a leash during their afternoon walk.
These domestic animals had a curious understanding when it came to Alice’s protection.
“Bibi,” sang the canary, “Bibi, you sweet dog, guard our young lady well.
Bow and scrape to her!
Bow and scrape!
And drive away bad thoughts.
Keep an eye on the parasol—it’s so lazy; make sure it shields our beloved young lady from the sun!”
Take, for instance, the longing and murmuring of the blood, perpetual as the ticking of a watch.
Somewhere the idea was already once expressed that there is nothing stranger than being alluring.
It’s not easy to look after a being whose reason for existing is to entice; yet Alice was well-protected by her canary Fifi, by her mother, the major’s wife, and by her Doberman pinscher Bibi, whom she led on a leash during their afternoon walk.
These domestic animals had a curious understanding when it came to Alice’s protection.
“Bibi,” sang the canary, “Bibi, you sweet dog, guard our young lady well.
Bow and scrape to her!
Bow and scrape!
And drive away bad thoughts.
Keep an eye on the parasol—it’s so lazy; make sure it shields our beloved young lady from the sun!”
One mild August evening, at sunset, Alice was taking a walk along the garden path, amusing herself by poking little round holes in the gravel with the tip of her parasol.
It was a small but agreeable garden surrounded by a wall that was covered with climbing roses; a hobo lying in the sun on top of the wall broke off a piece of brick and threw it at Alice.
Struck on the shoulder, she staggered and almost fell—and she was just about to cry out when she noticed that her tormentor showed neither anger nor satisfaction, but simply dealt her another blow to the back with another small piece of brick.
The brute’s face expressed nothing but the
idleness of an afternoon siesta, indifference, and cynicism; accordingly, Alice smiled faintly at him, her lips trembling with pain, upon which the hobo slid down from the wall and disappeared; while she returned home, repeating to herself:
It was a small but agreeable garden surrounded by a wall that was covered with climbing roses; a hobo lying in the sun on top of the wall broke off a piece of brick and threw it at Alice.
Struck on the shoulder, she staggered and almost fell—and she was just about to cry out when she noticed that her tormentor showed neither anger nor satisfaction, but simply dealt her another blow to the back with another small piece of brick.
The brute’s face expressed nothing but the
idleness of an afternoon siesta, indifference, and cynicism; accordingly, Alice smiled faintly at him, her lips trembling with pain, upon which the hobo slid down from the wall and disappeared; while she returned home, repeating to herself:
“I smiled .
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“Alice!
Alice!”
called Mrs.
S., her mother.
“Suppertime, Alice!”
Alice!”
called Mrs.
S., her mother.
“Suppertime, Alice!”
“Coming, mama,” replied Alice.
“Why are you slurping like that, child?
Whoever saw anyone drink tea that way?”
Whoever saw anyone drink tea that way?”
“It’s because it’s really hot, Mama,” answered Alice.
“Alice, don’t eat that slice of bread after it fell on the floor.”
“It’s so as not to waste it, Mama.”
“Look at Bibi, sitting up and begging for his bread and butter.
You should be ashamed to be so selfish, child—there now, why did you step on the poor creature’s foot?
What’s gotten into you today?
What’s happened to you?”
You should be ashamed to be so selfish, child—there now, why did you step on the poor creature’s foot?
What’s gotten into you today?
What’s happened to you?”
“Oh, I’m so distracted,” said Alice dreamily.
“Mama, why is it that men wear trousers?—I mean, we have legs too, don’t we?
And Mama, why is it that men have short hair?
Do men have their hair cut because .
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because .
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they have to, or because they want to?”
“Mama, why is it that men wear trousers?—I mean, we have legs too, don’t we?
And Mama, why is it that men have short hair?
Do men have their hair cut because .
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because .
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they have to, or because they want to?”
“They wouldn’t look good with long hair, Alice.”
“But Mama, why do they want to look good?”
As she spoke she furtively slipped into her sleeve the silver spoon with which she had been drinking her tea.
“Why?”
said Mrs.
S.
“And why do you curl your locks?
So the world can be more beautiful and so Mr.
Sun won’t begrudge people his rays.”—But Alice had already risen and walked out into the garden.
She took the spoon from her sleeve and for some time looked at it undecidedly.
“Why?”
said Mrs.
S.
“And why do you curl your locks?
So the world can be more beautiful and so Mr.
Sun won’t begrudge people his rays.”—But Alice had already risen and walked out into the garden.
She took the spoon from her sleeve and for some time looked at it undecidedly.
“I stole it,” she whispered in astonishment.
“I stole it!
But what shall I do with it now?”
And in the end she buried it beneath a tree.
Oh, if Alice had not been hit by a rock she would never have stolen the spoon.
Women may not like extreme measures in their outer life, but inwardly they are capable of draining the most out of every situation if they wish.
“I stole it!
But what shall I do with it now?”
And in the end she buried it beneath a tree.
Oh, if Alice had not been hit by a rock she would never have stolen the spoon.
Women may not like extreme measures in their outer life, but inwardly they are capable of draining the most out of every situation if they wish.
In the meantime Major S., a sturdy, corpulent man, appeared at the door of the house, calling: “Alice!
Your fiancé has returned from his voyage to China and is coming tomorrow!”
Your fiancé has returned from his voyage to China and is coming tomorrow!”
Alice had become engaged four years ago, when she was still in her seventeenth spring.—“Miss Alice,” mumbled the young man, “will you permit this slim hand—to be mine?”
“What do you mean?”
she asked.
“I’m asking for your hand, Miss Alice,” stuttered the young paramour.
“Surely sir, you don’t expect me to cut off my hand,” said the naïve girl, nevertheless flushing scarlet.
“Then you do not wish to be my betrothed?”
“Oh yes,” she replied, “but on condition that you give me your word you’ll never importune me for any of my extremities; that’s ridiculous!”
“Wonderful!”
he exclaimed.
“You have no idea how enchanting you are.
Intoxicating!”
And he spent the entire evening roaming the streets and repeating: “She understood it literally; she thought that I .
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desired to take her hand the way a person takes a piece of cake.
It makes one want to drop to one’s knees!”
“What do you mean?”
she asked.
“I’m asking for your hand, Miss Alice,” stuttered the young paramour.
“Surely sir, you don’t expect me to cut off my hand,” said the naïve girl, nevertheless flushing scarlet.
“Then you do not wish to be my betrothed?”
“Oh yes,” she replied, “but on condition that you give me your word you’ll never importune me for any of my extremities; that’s ridiculous!”
“Wonderful!”
he exclaimed.
“You have no idea how enchanting you are.
Intoxicating!”
And he spent the entire evening roaming the streets and repeating: “She understood it literally; she thought that I .
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desired to take her hand the way a person takes a piece of cake.
It makes one want to drop to one’s knees!”
He was beyond question a very handsome young man; he had a pale complexion and contrasting red lips, while his spirit was in no way inferior to his physical beauty.
How rich and varied is the human spirit!
Some construct their morality upon rectitude, others on kindheartedness; whereas for Paul the alpha and omega,
the foundation and the acme was maidenhood.
It was this that formed the cornerstone of his soul and about which all his higher instincts were entwined.
Chateaubriand too regarded maidenhood as something perfect and yearned for it, saying:
We see then that virginity, which rises from the lowest member of the chain of beings, stretches upward to humankind, and from humankind to the angels, and from the angels to God, where it is lost.
God himself is a great recluse in the universe, the eternal youth of worlds.
How rich and varied is the human spirit!
Some construct their morality upon rectitude, others on kindheartedness; whereas for Paul the alpha and omega,
the foundation and the acme was maidenhood.
It was this that formed the cornerstone of his soul and about which all his higher instincts were entwined.
Chateaubriand too regarded maidenhood as something perfect and yearned for it, saying:
We see then that virginity, which rises from the lowest member of the chain of beings, stretches upward to humankind, and from humankind to the angels, and from the angels to God, where it is lost.
God himself is a great recluse in the universe, the eternal youth of worlds.
If Paul had fallen in love with Alice it was because her elbow, her slim hands and her slender feet were more virginal than one normally finds, perhaps owing to her nature, perhaps as a consequence of her parents’ mindful care; and because she seemed to him maidenhood incarnate.
“A virgin,” he would think.
“She—she understands nothing.
The stork.
No, it’s too beautiful even to think about—except perhaps on one’s knees.”
“She—she understands nothing.
The stork.
No, it’s too beautiful even to think about—except perhaps on one’s knees.”
And as he passed by the municipal slaughterhouse he added: “Perhaps she also thinks that little ready-made lambs are brought by the stork?
That roast lamb comes right onto the table?
Oh, how sublime that is!
How can one not love her?”
That roast lamb comes right onto the table?
Oh, how sublime that is!
How can one not love her?”
And how can one not worship the Creator?
It’s incomprehensible!
How very wonderful nature is, that something like virginity is even permissible in this vale of tears.
Virginity—in other words, a discrete category of beings who are closed, isolated, unaware, partitioned off by a thin screen.
They tremble in fearful expectation, breathing deeply, brushing against things without penetrating them—separate from that which surrounds them, locked away from obscenity, sealed—and that is not merely an empty phrase,
or rhetoric, but a genuine seal, as good as any other.
A stunning combination of physics and metaphysics, abstract and concrete—from a minor bodily detail there flows an entire sea of idealism and wonders that are glaringly at odds with our sorry reality.
It’s incomprehensible!
How very wonderful nature is, that something like virginity is even permissible in this vale of tears.
Virginity—in other words, a discrete category of beings who are closed, isolated, unaware, partitioned off by a thin screen.
They tremble in fearful expectation, breathing deeply, brushing against things without penetrating them—separate from that which surrounds them, locked away from obscenity, sealed—and that is not merely an empty phrase,
or rhetoric, but a genuine seal, as good as any other.
A stunning combination of physics and metaphysics, abstract and concrete—from a minor bodily detail there flows an entire sea of idealism and wonders that are glaringly at odds with our sorry reality.
As she eats her roast lamb she knows nothing and suspects nothing; and it’s the same with every matter from morning to evening.
When was it that instead of spider she had said spidey—the spidey’s eating the wee fly?
A marvel!
Innocent both in the drawing room and in the dining room, and also in her little young lady’s room behind the white lace curtain, and on the toi- .
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Quiet!
What a terrible thought!—He clenched his teeth, and his whole face twitched nervously.
“No, no,” he whispered.
“She, she doesn’t do that at all, she doesn’t know that; otherwise surely God would not be in his heaven.”—Yet he felt that he was lying.
“In any case it happens apart from her; at such times she’s absent in spirit, it’s as it were—automatic .
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When was it that instead of spider she had said spidey—the spidey’s eating the wee fly?
A marvel!
Innocent both in the drawing room and in the dining room, and also in her little young lady’s room behind the white lace curtain, and on the toi- .
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.
Quiet!
What a terrible thought!—He clenched his teeth, and his whole face twitched nervously.
“No, no,” he whispered.
“She, she doesn’t do that at all, she doesn’t know that; otherwise surely God would not be in his heaven.”—Yet he felt that he was lying.
“In any case it happens apart from her; at such times she’s absent in spirit, it’s as it were—automatic .
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“Yes, but all the same—that’s a horrible thought!
“Oh!
And I?
I, who am thinking about this, who am capable of thinking about such a thing, who do not go deaf and blind in the face of these horrors, but look on mentally?
How despicable!
It’s not her fault that this befell her but mine that I am rotten and dirty and that I’m not able remain silent in my mind.
For my part, do I not owe her virginity a little unawareness?
Yes—in order to love a virgin appropriately one should oneself be virginal and unaware; otherwise nothing will come of our idyll.
And I?
I, who am thinking about this, who am capable of thinking about such a thing, who do not go deaf and blind in the face of these horrors, but look on mentally?
How despicable!
It’s not her fault that this befell her but mine that I am rotten and dirty and that I’m not able remain silent in my mind.
For my part, do I not owe her virginity a little unawareness?
Yes—in order to love a virgin appropriately one should oneself be virginal and unaware; otherwise nothing will come of our idyll.
“And so I desire to be virginal, but how can I achieve this?
I’m not a virgin.
True, like a priest or a monk I could wrap myself in black, in fasting and a cassock, and practice sexual abstinence; but
what good would it do me?
Is a monk virginal, or a priest?
No, not in the slightest; the secret of male virginity lies elsewhere.
Above all one should shut one’s eyes tight, and secondly rely on one’s instinct.
I sense that instinct will show me the way.
Yes—the way I felt with my instinct, though I wouldn’t be able to say why, that her ears are more virginal than her nose, and even more than her ears —the gentle incline of her back; her third finger more than her index finger; the way I’m able to appraise in this regard every detail of her figure—in the same way instinct will be my guide in attaining male virginity and becoming worthy of Alice.”
I’m not a virgin.
True, like a priest or a monk I could wrap myself in black, in fasting and a cassock, and practice sexual abstinence; but
what good would it do me?
Is a monk virginal, or a priest?
No, not in the slightest; the secret of male virginity lies elsewhere.
Above all one should shut one’s eyes tight, and secondly rely on one’s instinct.
I sense that instinct will show me the way.
Yes—the way I felt with my instinct, though I wouldn’t be able to say why, that her ears are more virginal than her nose, and even more than her ears —the gentle incline of her back; her third finger more than her index finger; the way I’m able to appraise in this regard every detail of her figure—in the same way instinct will be my guide in attaining male virginity and becoming worthy of Alice.”
Is it really necessary to dwell on the question of where instinct led him?
After all, everyone has experienced something of this kind between the ages of thirteen and fourteen.
His parents had ordained that he would become a merchant, but he was torn between two other professions—soldier and sailor.
In the profession of soldier there is, to be sure, blind discipline and a hard bed, but on the other hand there is a lack of space.
Whereas sailors have the advantage over others that, deprived of the company of the opposite sex, they have space, the elements, and freedom—and in addition, sea water is salty.
Their ship, rocking lightly, bears them off to distant realms, amid fantastical palm trees and colorful people, to a world just as unreal as the one dreamed by Alice and her friends in their white beds.
It is not without a deeper meaning that those far-off lands are called virgin—lands where the men wear plaits, where ears weighed down by metal earrings stretch to the shoulders, and where beneath the baobab tree idols devour slaves or infants, while the entire population indulges in ritual contortions.
Is a kiss by rubbing noses, as practiced among the
savage tribes, not something taken directly from an innocent, dreamy little head?
Paul had spent long years there.
He was struck by the fact that the virgins of those parts, who wore no skirts or blouses, were wholly on the surface.
“Disgusting,” he would think.
“The annihilation of charm .
.
.
True, the color itself settles the issue .
.
.
When one is red, black, or yellow—it can’t be helped, in a skirt or not—one cannot lay claim to the title of virgin.
After all, everyone has experienced something of this kind between the ages of thirteen and fourteen.
His parents had ordained that he would become a merchant, but he was torn between two other professions—soldier and sailor.
In the profession of soldier there is, to be sure, blind discipline and a hard bed, but on the other hand there is a lack of space.
Whereas sailors have the advantage over others that, deprived of the company of the opposite sex, they have space, the elements, and freedom—and in addition, sea water is salty.
Their ship, rocking lightly, bears them off to distant realms, amid fantastical palm trees and colorful people, to a world just as unreal as the one dreamed by Alice and her friends in their white beds.
It is not without a deeper meaning that those far-off lands are called virgin—lands where the men wear plaits, where ears weighed down by metal earrings stretch to the shoulders, and where beneath the baobab tree idols devour slaves or infants, while the entire population indulges in ritual contortions.
Is a kiss by rubbing noses, as practiced among the
savage tribes, not something taken directly from an innocent, dreamy little head?
Paul had spent long years there.
He was struck by the fact that the virgins of those parts, who wore no skirts or blouses, were wholly on the surface.
“Disgusting,” he would think.
“The annihilation of charm .
.
.
True, the color itself settles the issue .
.
.
When one is red, black, or yellow—it can’t be helped, in a skirt or not—one cannot lay claim to the title of virgin.
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