Authors: Witold Gombrowicz
It will be a long and arduous road. For nowadays individuals as well as whole nations are quite good at managing their psychological life, and they are not strangers to creating styles, beliefs, principles, ideals, and feelings at will and with their immediate interests in mind; yet they do not know how to live without adhering to a style; and we still don't know how to defend the depths of our freshness against the demon of order. Great discoveries are indispensable-powerful blows struck by the soft human hand at the steel armor of Form, as well as unparalleled cunning and great integrity of thought and an extreme sharpening of intelligence—so that man may break loose from his rigidity and reconcile within himself form with the formless, law with anarchy, maturity with sacred and eternal immaturity. But before this happens, tell me: in your opinion, are Anjou pears better than Bosc pears? Do you like to snack on them while comfortably sitting in wicker chairs on the porch, or do you prefer to abandon yourselves to this activity in the shade of a tree while a fresh and gentle breeze is cooling your body parts? And I ask you this in all seriousness and with total responsibility for my words, and likewise with the greatest respect for all your parts without exception, because I know that you are a part of Humanity, of which I am also a part, and that you partly take part in the part of something which is also a part and of which I am also in part a part, together with all the particles and parts of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts, of parts ... Help! Oh, confounded parts! Oh, bloodthirsty, nightmarish parts, you've grabbed me once again, is there no escaping you, hah, where can I find shelter, what am I to do? oh, that's enough; enough, enough, let's finish this part of the book, let's swiftly move on to another part, and I swear that in the next chapter there will be no more particles, because I'll shake myself free of them and cast them off, and I'll dump them outside while inside I remain (in part at least) without parts.
5 The Child Runs Deep in Filidor
The Prince of all the most gloriously renowned synthesists of all time was without a doubt Dr. Professor of Syn-thetology at the University of Leyden, the High Filidor, born in the southern environs of Annam. He acted in the pompous spirit of High Synthesis mainly by addition + infinity, and, in emergencies, also with the aid of multiplication + infinity. He was a man of goodly size, quite obese, with a windblown beard and the face of a prophet in spectacles. But, in the natural order of things and in keeping with the Newtonian principle of action and reaction, a spiritual phenomenon of such magnitude could not remain unchallenged and therefore, as a counter-phenomenon, an equally illustrious Analyst was born in Colombo, and, having obtained a doctorate and a Professor's chair in the department of High Analysis at Columbia University, he soon climbed to the highest echelons of a scientific career. He was a lean, small-boned, smoothly shaven man with the face of a skeptic in spectacles, and his only inner mission was the pursuit and ruination of the illustrious Filidor.
The Analyst's method was decomposition, and his specialty was to decompose a person into parts by means of calculation in general, and by filliping noses in particular. He would fillip a nose and thus activate it to a life of its own, whereupon, to the horror of its owner, the nose would move spontaneously in every direction. The Analyst often practiced his art while riding a streetcar, especially if he was bored. And so, following the voice of his innermost calling, he set out in pursuit of Filidor and, in a small town in Spain, he even managed to secure for himself the genteel title of anti-Filidor, which made him very proud indeed. When Filidor found out that he was being pursued he set out, needless to say, in pursuit of anti-Filidor, and, since pride wouldn't let either of them admit that he was not only the pursuer but also the pursued, the two scientists chased each other for a long time to no avail. And therefore, when Filidor was in Bremen, for example, anti-Filidor sped from The Hague to Bremen, unwilling or unable to accept the fact that Filidor, at the same time and with the same goal in mind, was boarding the express from Bremen to The Hague. The collision, at breakneck speed, of the two scientists—a catastrophe ranking in magnitude among the greatest railroad catastrophes—took place quite accidentally on the premises of a classy restaurant in the Hotel Bristol in Warsaw. Filidor, train schedule in hand and accompanied by Mrs. Professor Filidor, was just at that moment studying the best connections, when anti-Filidor, straight from the train and out of breath, rushed into the restaurant with his anlytical traveling companion, Flora Gente from Messina, on his arm. We, i.e., the three assistants here present, Drs. Teofil Poklewski, Teodor Roklewski, and I, realizing the gravity of the situation, immediately began taking notes.
Anti-Filidor walked up to our table and silently looked daggers at the Professor, who rose to his feet. At first they tried to apply spiritual pressure. The Analyst pressed coolly from below, the Synthetist responded from above, with a gaze charged with defiant dignity. When the duel of looks gave no definitive result, the two spiritual enemies began a duel of words. The Doctor and master of Analysis declared:
"Noodles!" The Synthetologue responded:
"One noodle!" The anti-Filidor roared:
"Noodles, noodles, namely a mixture of flour, eggs, and water!" Filidor retorted instantly:
"Noodle, namely the higher being of the Noodle, the highest Noodle himself!"
His eyes flashed lightning, his beard fluttered, it was clear that he had scored a victory. The Professor of High Analysis backed off a few steps in helpless fury, but he quickly seized on a dreadfully brainy concept, namely—physical weakling that he was compared to Filidor—he went for Filidor's wife, beloved above all else by the old and revered Professor. The course of events, as stated in the official Record, continued thus:
1. Mrs. Professor Filidor is buxom, fat, quite majestic, she sits, says nothing, concentrates.
2. Professor Dr. anti-Filidor, his brainy plan in mind, placed himself opposite Mrs. Professor, and began to observe her with a look that stripped her of all her clothing. Mrs. Filidor shook with cold and in shame. Dr. Professor Filidor silently covered her with a traveling rug and cast a withering glance full of the utmost disdain at the arrogant man. He revealed thereby a trace of anxiety.
3. Whereupon anti-Filidor said quietly: "The ear, the ear!" and he burst out with a derisive laugh. Under the effect of these words the ear instantly came into focus and became lewd. Filidor ordered his wife to pull her hat over her ears; however, this was of little use because, just then, anti-Filidor muttered, as if to himself: "There are two holes in the nose," thereby laying bare the nostrils in the venerable Mrs. Professor's nose in a manner most shameless, as well as analytical. Since there was no way in which her nostrils could be covered, the situation became grave indeed.
4. The Professor from Leyden threatened to call the police. The scale of victory was clearly beginning to tilt to the Colombo side. The master of Analysis said brainily:
"Fingers, the fingers of your hand, five fingers."
Unfortunately, Mrs. Professor's obesity was not sufficient to obviate this fact, which suddenly stood before those gathered in its full, unparalleled vividness, namely the presence of her fingers. There they were, five on each side. Mrs. Filidor, totally defiled, tried with waning strength to pull on her gloves, but—it's simply unbelievable—the doctor from Colombo made a spot analysis of her urine and roared victoriously:
"H
2
OC
4
, TPS, a few leucocytes, and albumin!"
Everyone rose. Dr. Professor anti-Filidor took his leave with his paramour, who burst out in vulgar laughter, while Professor Filidor, with the help of the undersigned, immediately took his wife to the hospital.
Signed: T. Poklewski, T. Roklewski, and Anton Swistak Assistants The following morning Roklewski, Poklewski, and I, together with the Professor, met at Mrs. Filidor's sickbed. The woman's decomposition continued all too predictably. Bitten into by anti-Filidor's analytic tooth, she was losing her internal cohesion. From time to time she moaned numbly: I the leg, I the ear, my leg, my ear, finger, head, leg—as if saying goodbye to her body parts, which had already began to move autonomously. Her whole being was in agony. We all focused on a search for immediate measures to save her. But there were no such measures. After consulting with Docent S. Lopatkin, who arrived by plane from Moscow at 7:40 a.m., we agreed once again that it was crucial to apply the most drastically synthetic scientific methods. But there were no such methods. Filidor concentrated all his faculties to such a degree that we took a step back, whereupon he said:
"A slap in the face! A slap in the face, and a sharp one at that—of all body parts it's the face—a slap in the face is the only thing that can restore my wife's good name and resynthesize all those scattered elements in the most honorable manner of slapping and smacking. To work, away!"
However, it was no easy matter to find the world-renowned Analyst in the city. Not until that evening did he let us catch up with him in a high-class bar. In a state of sober drunkenness he downed one bottle after another, and the more he drank the more sober he became, and his analytical mistress likewise. Actually they were more drunk with sobriety than with alcohol. As we entered, the waiters, white as sheets, were hiding behind the counter like cowards while the couple silently gave themselves over to various ill-defined, coldblooded orgies. We laid our plans. The Professor was to feign an attack with his right hand to the Analyst's left cheek, after which he was to deliver a slap with his left to the Analyst's right cheek, while we—i.e., the Doctor Assistants of Warsaw University, Poklewski, Roklewski, and I, as well as Docent S. Lopatkin—were to proceed forthwith with writing our report. The plan was simple, the action uncomplicated. But the Professor's raised hand fell to his side. We, the witnesses, stood aghast. There was no cheek! There was, I repeat, no cheek to be slapped, only two little roses, and something like a wreath of little doves!
With demonic cleverness anti-Filidor had foreseen and forestalled Filidor's plans. That sober Bacchus had tattooed two little roses and a vignette of little doves on each cheek! As a result, the cheeks, and thereby the slap in the face intended by Filidor, lost all meaning, let alone any higher meaning. Because indeed—a slap delivered at the roses and the little doves would no longer be a slap in the face—it would be more like hitting wallpaper. Since we could not allow a widely respected pedagogue and educator of youth to become the object of ridicule by pounding wallpaper because his wife was sick, we strongly advised him against an action that he would later regret.
"You dog!" roared the old man. "You despicable, oh, you despicable, despicable dog!"
"You heap of things!" replied the Analyst with a dreadful, analytical disdain. "I too am a heap. If you wish—kick me in the abdomen. You won't be kicking m e in the abdomen, you'll be kicking my abdomen—nothing more. You wanted to attack my cheeks by slapping them, didn't you? You can attack my cheek but not me. There is no me. No me at all. No me!"
"I'll get at you yet! God willing, I'll get at you!" "For the time being my cheeks are slap-proof!" anti-Filidor smirked. Flora Gente, sitting next to him, burst out laughing, the cosmic doctor of analysis cast a lascivious look at her and then departed. Flora Gente, however, remained. She sat on a high stool and looked at us with the spent eyes of a totally analyzed parrot and cow. At once, that is at 8:40 a.m., we proceeded—Professor Filidor, the two medics, Docent Lopatkin, and I—to our conference; Docent Lopatkin, as usual, wielded the pen. The conference took the following course.
All Three Doctors of Law Let it be known that we see no possibility of settling the conflict honorably, and we advise the Right Honorable Professor to ignore the insult, as coming from an individual unable to render honorable satisfaction.
Professor Dr. Filidor How can I ignore it while my wife lies dying?
Docent S. Lopatkin Your wife is beyond saving.
Dr. Filidor Don't say it, don't say it! Oh, a slap in the face, that's the only remedy. But there's no chance of a slap. No cheeks. There's no means of godly synthesis. There's no honor! There's no God! Yet—there are cheeks! There does exist a slap in the face! There is God! Honor! Synthesis!
I
I see that logical thinking is failing you, Professor. Either there are cheeks, or there are not.
Filidor You forget, gentlemen, that there are still my two cheeks. There are no cheeks of his, but mine are still here. We can still play the card of my two untouched cheeks. Gentlemen, try to understand my thinking—I can't slap him in the face, but he can slap me—and whether it's me him or he me makes no difference, it will still be a Slap in the Face and it will still be Synthesis!
"All well and good! But how are we to make him slap you, Professor?!"
"How to make him slap you, Professor?!"
"How to make him slap you, Professor?!!"
"Gentlemen," the brilliant thinker answered with concentration, "he has cheeks, and so do I. The principle is that of analogy, and I will therefore act not so much logically as analogically. There is more certainty
per analogiam,
because nature is ruled to some extent by analogy. If he is the king of Analysis, then I am the king of Synthesis. If he has cheeks, I too have cheeks. If I have my wife, he has his mistress. If he has analyzed my wife, I'll synthesize his mistress, and I will thus wrench from him the slap in the face which he is so loath to give me! Since I can't slap him in the face I'll provoke him, I'll make him slap my face." And without further ado he beckoned to Flora Gente.
We fell silent. She came up to us, all her body parts in motion; she squinted at me with one eye and at the Professor with the other, she bared her teeth toward Stefan Lopatkin, and she thrust her bosom toward Roklewski, while wiggling her behind in the direction of Pok-lewski. The resulting impression was such that the Docent whispered: