Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz
Bacacay (4 page)
But if a program must be discussed, then please: I demand and require that everything—fathers and mothers, race and faith, virtue and fiancées—everything be nationalized and distributed with the aid of ration cards in equal and sufficient portions.
I demand, and maintain such a demand in the face of the whole world, that my mother be cut into little pieces and that anyone who is not fervent in prayer be given a piece, and that the same be done with my father in relation to individuals devoid of race.
I also insist that all half-smiles, all charms and graces be provided only on explicit request, while unjustified disgust should be punished by incarceration in a correctional facility.
This is my program.
And as for a method, it involves above all shrill laughter, and also narrowing of the eyes.—With a certain contrariness I rely on the principle that war destroyed all human feelings in me.
And I maintain furthermore that I personally did not sign a peace treaty with anyone and that the state of war—for me—has not been suspended at all.—“Ha,”—you will exclaim—“it’s an unrealistic program and a foolish and unintelligible method.”
Fine, but is
your
program truly more realistic, are
your
methods more intelligible?
Besides, I do not insist either on the program or the method—and if I chose the term “communism” it was only because “communism” is a mystery as inscrutable for minds opposed to it as are for me all your poutings and half-smiles.
I demand, and maintain such a demand in the face of the whole world, that my mother be cut into little pieces and that anyone who is not fervent in prayer be given a piece, and that the same be done with my father in relation to individuals devoid of race.
I also insist that all half-smiles, all charms and graces be provided only on explicit request, while unjustified disgust should be punished by incarceration in a correctional facility.
This is my program.
And as for a method, it involves above all shrill laughter, and also narrowing of the eyes.—With a certain contrariness I rely on the principle that war destroyed all human feelings in me.
And I maintain furthermore that I personally did not sign a peace treaty with anyone and that the state of war—for me—has not been suspended at all.—“Ha,”—you will exclaim—“it’s an unrealistic program and a foolish and unintelligible method.”
Fine, but is
your
program truly more realistic, are
your
methods more intelligible?
Besides, I do not insist either on the program or the method—and if I chose the term “communism” it was only because “communism” is a mystery as inscrutable for minds opposed to it as are for me all your poutings and half-smiles.
That is how it is, ladies and gentlemen; you smile and narrow your eyes; you cherish swallows and torment frogs; you find fault with a nose.
There is constantly someone that you hate, someone you find disgusting; then again you tumble into an incomprehensible state of love and adoration—and everything on account of some Mystery.
But what would happen if I were to acquire my own mystery and impose it on your world with all the patriotism, heroism, and devotion I was taught by love and by the army?
What will happen if I in turn smile (with a rather different smile) and narrow my eyes with the bluntess of an old warrior?
I may have acted most wittily with my beloved Jadwisia.
“Is woman an enigma?”
I asked.
(After my return she had greeted me with boundless effusiveness; she took a look at my medal and we went straight to the park.) “Oh yes,” she replied.
“Am I not enigmatic?”
she said, lowering her eyelids.
“An elemental woman and a sphinx.”
“I am an enigma too!”
I said.
“I too have my own language of mystery and I demand that you speak it.
Do you see that frog?
I swear on my honor as a soldier that I’ll put it under your blouse if you don’t say immediately, with complete gravity and looking me in the eye, the following words: cham—bam—bue, mue—mue, bah—bih, bah—beh—no—zar.”
There is constantly someone that you hate, someone you find disgusting; then again you tumble into an incomprehensible state of love and adoration—and everything on account of some Mystery.
But what would happen if I were to acquire my own mystery and impose it on your world with all the patriotism, heroism, and devotion I was taught by love and by the army?
What will happen if I in turn smile (with a rather different smile) and narrow my eyes with the bluntess of an old warrior?
I may have acted most wittily with my beloved Jadwisia.
“Is woman an enigma?”
I asked.
(After my return she had greeted me with boundless effusiveness; she took a look at my medal and we went straight to the park.) “Oh yes,” she replied.
“Am I not enigmatic?”
she said, lowering her eyelids.
“An elemental woman and a sphinx.”
“I am an enigma too!”
I said.
“I too have my own language of mystery and I demand that you speak it.
Do you see that frog?
I swear on my honor as a soldier that I’ll put it under your blouse if you don’t say immediately, with complete gravity and looking me in the eye, the following words: cham—bam—bue, mue—mue, bah—bih, bah—beh—no—zar.”
She wouldn’t do it for anything.
She wriggled out of it as best she could with the excuse that it was stupid and pointless, that she
could not;
she went scarlet trying to turn everything into a joke, and
in the end she began to cry.
“I can’t, I can’t,” she repeated through her sobs.
“I’m embarrassed; how it is possible ...
such nonsensical words?”
And so I took a great fat toad and did what I had said I would.
It seemed as if she would go mad.
She thrashed about on the ground like one possessed, and the squawk she emitted I can only compare to the comical shriek of a man hit by an artillery shell who has lost both legs and part of his stomach.
It may be that this comparison, like the joke with the frog, is distasteful; but please remember that I, a colorless rat, a neutral rat, neither white not black, am also distasteful to the majority of people.
And is it really the case that the same thing should be tasteful and lovely to everyone?
What seemed to me most lovely, most mysterious, and most redolent of heather and mint in this entire adventure was the fact that in the end—unable to free herself of the toad squirming about beneath her blouse—she lost her mind.
She wriggled out of it as best she could with the excuse that it was stupid and pointless, that she
could not;
she went scarlet trying to turn everything into a joke, and
in the end she began to cry.
“I can’t, I can’t,” she repeated through her sobs.
“I’m embarrassed; how it is possible ...
such nonsensical words?”
And so I took a great fat toad and did what I had said I would.
It seemed as if she would go mad.
She thrashed about on the ground like one possessed, and the squawk she emitted I can only compare to the comical shriek of a man hit by an artillery shell who has lost both legs and part of his stomach.
It may be that this comparison, like the joke with the frog, is distasteful; but please remember that I, a colorless rat, a neutral rat, neither white not black, am also distasteful to the majority of people.
And is it really the case that the same thing should be tasteful and lovely to everyone?
What seemed to me most lovely, most mysterious, and most redolent of heather and mint in this entire adventure was the fact that in the end—unable to free herself of the toad squirming about beneath her blouse—she lost her mind.
Perhaps I am not in fact a communist; perhaps I am only a militant pacifist.
I wander around the world, sailing across that abyss of inexplicable idiosyncrasies, and wherever I see some mysterious emotion, whether it is virtue or family, faith or fatherland, I always have to commit some villainy.
This is my mystery, which for my part I impose upon the great enigma of being.
I simply cannot calmly pass by a pair of happy lovers, or a mother and child, or a respectable old man—but at times I am seized by a longing for you, my dear Father and Mother, and for you, my sacred childhood!
I wander around the world, sailing across that abyss of inexplicable idiosyncrasies, and wherever I see some mysterious emotion, whether it is virtue or family, faith or fatherland, I always have to commit some villainy.
This is my mystery, which for my part I impose upon the great enigma of being.
I simply cannot calmly pass by a pair of happy lovers, or a mother and child, or a respectable old man—but at times I am seized by a longing for you, my dear Father and Mother, and for you, my sacred childhood!
A Premeditated Crime
In winter of last year I was obliged to visit Ignacy K., a landed gentleman, to conduct certain property-related business.
I took a few days’ leave, left a junior judge in charge and telegrammed: “Tuesday, 6 pm, please send horses.”
Yet when I arrived at the railroad station there were no horses.
I checked and found out that my telegram had been properly delivered.
The addressee himself had signed for it the previous day.
Like it or not, I had to hire a primitive wagonette, load it up with my suitcase and my toiletry case—the latter containing a small bottle of eau de cologne, a vial of Vegetal, almond-scented soap, a nail file, and nail scissors—and spend four hours bumping across the fields by night, in the quiet, during a thaw.
I was shivering in my city overcoat, my teeth chattering, as I stared at the driver’s back and thought—turning one’s back like that!
Permanently, often in secluded places, to be turned the other way and exposed to the whims of those sitting behind!
I took a few days’ leave, left a junior judge in charge and telegrammed: “Tuesday, 6 pm, please send horses.”
Yet when I arrived at the railroad station there were no horses.
I checked and found out that my telegram had been properly delivered.
The addressee himself had signed for it the previous day.
Like it or not, I had to hire a primitive wagonette, load it up with my suitcase and my toiletry case—the latter containing a small bottle of eau de cologne, a vial of Vegetal, almond-scented soap, a nail file, and nail scissors—and spend four hours bumping across the fields by night, in the quiet, during a thaw.
I was shivering in my city overcoat, my teeth chattering, as I stared at the driver’s back and thought—turning one’s back like that!
Permanently, often in secluded places, to be turned the other way and exposed to the whims of those sitting behind!
We finally pulled up in front of a wood-built country manor—it was in darkness, the only light coming from a window on the second floor.
I knocked at the door—it was locked; I knocked harder —nothing, silence.
I was set on by yard dogs and had to beat a retreat to the cart.
There, in turn, my driver started to accost me.
I knocked at the door—it was locked; I knocked harder —nothing, silence.
I was set on by yard dogs and had to beat a retreat to the cart.
There, in turn, my driver started to accost me.
“This isn’t exactly hospitable,” I thought.
At last the door opened and there appeared a tall, frail-looking man of about thirty with a blond mustache and a lamp in his hand.
“What is it?”
he asked, as if he had been awoken from sleep, as he raised the lamp.
he asked, as if he had been awoken from sleep, as he raised the lamp.
“Did you not receive my wire?
I’m H.”
I’m H.”
“H.?
What H.?”
He stared at me.
“Leave with God’s blessing,” he suddenly said in a quiet voice, as if he had spotted some special sign—his eyes looked away, and his hand closed more tightly around the lamp.
“With God’s blessing, with God’s blessing, sir!
God guide your way!”—and he hurriedly stepped back into the house.
What H.?”
He stared at me.
“Leave with God’s blessing,” he suddenly said in a quiet voice, as if he had spotted some special sign—his eyes looked away, and his hand closed more tightly around the lamp.
“With God’s blessing, with God’s blessing, sir!
God guide your way!”—and he hurriedly stepped back into the house.
I said more sharply this time:
“Pardon me.
Yesterday I sent a wire concerning my arrival.
I am investigating magistrate H.
I wish to talk with Mr.
K.—and if I wasn’t able to get here sooner it’s because no horses were sent to the station for me.”
Yesterday I sent a wire concerning my arrival.
I am investigating magistrate H.
I wish to talk with Mr.
K.—and if I wasn’t able to get here sooner it’s because no horses were sent to the station for me.”
He set the lamp down.
“That’s right,” he said after a moment, pensively, my tone having made no impression on him whatsoever.
“That’s right ...
You cabled ...
Please, do come in.”
“That’s right ...
You cabled ...
Please, do come in.”
What had happened?
It turned out, as I was told in the entryway by the young man (who was the owner’s son), that quite simply ...
they had completely forgotten about my arrival and about the cable that had been received the previous morning.
Explaining myself and apologizing politely for the incursion, I took off my overcoat and hung it on a peg.
He led me into a small sitting room where upon seeing us a young woman sprang up from the sofa with a soft “Oh.”
“My sister.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
And it was indeed a pleasure, for femininity, even without any incidental intentions, femininity, I say, is always welcome.
But the hand she gave me was perspiring—who gives a man a perspiring hand?—and the femininity itself, despite a charming little face, seemed somehow, how shall I put it, perspirational and indifferent, devoid of reaction, unkempt, and disheveled.
It turned out, as I was told in the entryway by the young man (who was the owner’s son), that quite simply ...
they had completely forgotten about my arrival and about the cable that had been received the previous morning.
Explaining myself and apologizing politely for the incursion, I took off my overcoat and hung it on a peg.
He led me into a small sitting room where upon seeing us a young woman sprang up from the sofa with a soft “Oh.”
“My sister.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
And it was indeed a pleasure, for femininity, even without any incidental intentions, femininity, I say, is always welcome.
But the hand she gave me was perspiring—who gives a man a perspiring hand?—and the femininity itself, despite a charming little face, seemed somehow, how shall I put it, perspirational and indifferent, devoid of reaction, unkempt, and disheveled.
We sat down on the old-fashioned red furniture and began an introductory conversation.
But the very first courteous commonplaces came up against an indefinable resistance, and instead of the fluidity that one wished for, things kept breaking off and getting stuck.
I: “I expect you were surprised to hear a knock at the door at this hour?”
They: “A knock?
Oh, that’s right ...”
I, politely: “I’m very sorry to have alarmed you, but otherwise I think I would have had to roam the fields all night, like Don Quixote, ha ha!”
They (awkwardly and softly, not seeing fit to respond to my little joke even with a conventional smile): “Not at all, you’re welcome.”
—What was this?
It looked truly bizarre—as if they were offended by me, or they were afraid of me, or they felt sorry for me, or they were embarrassed for me....
Planted in their armchairs, they avoided my gaze, nor did they look at each other; they bore my company with the greatest discomfort—it seemed that they were preoccupied exclusively with themselves, and the whole
time they were worried only that I might say something to insult them.
In the end it begin to irritate me.
What were they afraid of, what was it about me?
What sort of reception was this, aristocratic, timid, and proud?
And when I asked about the purpose of my visit, in other words about Mr.
K., the brother looked at the sister as if each were letting the other go first—in the end the brother swallowed and said distinctly, distinctly and solemnly, as if it were I don’t know what: “Yes, he is indeed at home.”
But the very first courteous commonplaces came up against an indefinable resistance, and instead of the fluidity that one wished for, things kept breaking off and getting stuck.
I: “I expect you were surprised to hear a knock at the door at this hour?”
They: “A knock?
Oh, that’s right ...”
I, politely: “I’m very sorry to have alarmed you, but otherwise I think I would have had to roam the fields all night, like Don Quixote, ha ha!”
They (awkwardly and softly, not seeing fit to respond to my little joke even with a conventional smile): “Not at all, you’re welcome.”
—What was this?
It looked truly bizarre—as if they were offended by me, or they were afraid of me, or they felt sorry for me, or they were embarrassed for me....
Planted in their armchairs, they avoided my gaze, nor did they look at each other; they bore my company with the greatest discomfort—it seemed that they were preoccupied exclusively with themselves, and the whole
time they were worried only that I might say something to insult them.
In the end it begin to irritate me.
What were they afraid of, what was it about me?
What sort of reception was this, aristocratic, timid, and proud?
And when I asked about the purpose of my visit, in other words about Mr.
K., the brother looked at the sister as if each were letting the other go first—in the end the brother swallowed and said distinctly, distinctly and solemnly, as if it were I don’t know what: “Yes, he is indeed at home.”
It was exactly as if he had said: “The King, my Father, is at home!”
Supper was also somewhat eccentric.
It was served carelessly, not without scorn for the food and for me.
The appetite with which I in my hunger devoured the gifts of the Lord appeared to arouse the indignation even of the solemn butler Szczepan, not to mention the brother and sister, who attended in silence to the noises I made over my plate—and you know how hard it is to swallow when someone is listening—against one’s will every mouthful descends into the throat with a terrible gulping sound.
The brother’s name was Antoni, and the sister was called Miss Cecylia.
It was served carelessly, not without scorn for the food and for me.
The appetite with which I in my hunger devoured the gifts of the Lord appeared to arouse the indignation even of the solemn butler Szczepan, not to mention the brother and sister, who attended in silence to the noises I made over my plate—and you know how hard it is to swallow when someone is listening—against one’s will every mouthful descends into the throat with a terrible gulping sound.
The brother’s name was Antoni, and the sister was called Miss Cecylia.
All at once I looked up—who was this coming in?
A dethroned queen?
No, it was their mother, Mrs.
K., approaching slowly; she gave me a hand cold as ice, looked at me with a hint of dignified surprise and sat down without a word.
She was a small, corpulent, even fat individual, one of those old country matrons who are implacable when it comes to all sorts of principles, especially social ones—and she eyed me sternly, with boundless surprise, as if I had an obscene saying written on my forehead.
Cecylia made a gesture in an attempt to explain, or to justify—but the gesture
died in midair, and the atmosphere became even more artificial and oppressive.
A dethroned queen?
No, it was their mother, Mrs.
K., approaching slowly; she gave me a hand cold as ice, looked at me with a hint of dignified surprise and sat down without a word.
She was a small, corpulent, even fat individual, one of those old country matrons who are implacable when it comes to all sorts of principles, especially social ones—and she eyed me sternly, with boundless surprise, as if I had an obscene saying written on my forehead.
Cecylia made a gesture in an attempt to explain, or to justify—but the gesture
died in midair, and the atmosphere became even more artificial and oppressive.
“I expect you’re rather disappointed on account of ...
this futile journey,” said Mrs.
K.
suddenly—and in such a tone!
A tone of indignation, the tone of a queen to whom someone has failed to bow for the requisite third time—as if eating chops constituted a crime of
lèse majesté!
this futile journey,” said Mrs.
K.
suddenly—and in such a tone!
A tone of indignation, the tone of a queen to whom someone has failed to bow for the requisite third time—as if eating chops constituted a crime of
lèse majesté!
“The pork chops here are excellent!”
I replied in anger, since despite myself I was feeling ever more vulgar, foolish, and uncomfortable.
I replied in anger, since despite myself I was feeling ever more vulgar, foolish, and uncomfortable.
“Chops ...
chops ...”
chops ...”
“Antoś still hasn’t said anything, Mama,” the timid Cecylia burst out all of a sudden, quieter than a mouse.
“What do you mean, he hasn’t said anything?
What do you mean, you haven’t said anything?
You
still
haven’t said anything?”
What do you mean, you haven’t said anything?
You
still
haven’t said anything?”
“What for, Mama?”
whispered Antoni; he turned pale and gritted his teeth, as if he were about to sit in the dentist’s chair.
whispered Antoni; he turned pale and gritted his teeth, as if he were about to sit in the dentist’s chair.
“Antoś ...”
“I mean ...
What for?
It makes no difference ...
there’s no point —there’ll always be time,” he said and fell silent.
What for?
It makes no difference ...
there’s no point —there’ll always be time,” he said and fell silent.
“Antoś, how can you?
What do you mean it makes no difference?
What are you saying, Antoś?”
What do you mean it makes no difference?
What are you saying, Antoś?”
“No one could be ...
It’s all the same ...”
It’s all the same ...”
“You poor thing!”
whispered his mother, stroking his hair, but he brushed her hand aside roughly.—“My husband,” she said dryly, turning to me, “died last night.”—What?!
So he was dead?
So that was it!
I interrupted my meal—I set down my knife and fork —I hurriedly swallowed the morsel I had in my mouth.—How
could this be?
It was only yesterday that he had picked up my telegram from the station!
I looked at them: all three of them were waiting.
They were modest and grave, but—they were waiting, with stern, reserved faces and pursed lips; they were waiting stiffly —what on earth were they waiting for?
Oh, that’s right, condolences had to be offered!
whispered his mother, stroking his hair, but he brushed her hand aside roughly.—“My husband,” she said dryly, turning to me, “died last night.”—What?!
So he was dead?
So that was it!
I interrupted my meal—I set down my knife and fork —I hurriedly swallowed the morsel I had in my mouth.—How
could this be?
It was only yesterday that he had picked up my telegram from the station!
I looked at them: all three of them were waiting.
They were modest and grave, but—they were waiting, with stern, reserved faces and pursed lips; they were waiting stiffly —what on earth were they waiting for?
Oh, that’s right, condolences had to be offered!
It was so unexpected that to begin with I was completely put out of countenance.
In my confusion I rose from my chair and mumbled something indistinctly along the lines of: “I’m terribly sorry ...
I’m very ...
I’m sorry.”—I fell silent, but they did not respond whatsoever, for this was still too little for them; with lowered eyes and unmoving faces, their clothes untidy, he unshaven, the women with disheveled hair, their fingernails dirty—they all stood without saying anything.
I cleared my throat, desperately thinking of where to begin, the right expression, but it so happened that my head was completely empty, a void, as I’m sure has happened to you too, while they—they were waiting, immersed in their suffering.
They were waiting without looking—Antoni was drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop, Cecylia was embarrassedly picking at the hem of her dirty gown, and their mother stood motionless, as if turned to stone, with that stern, unyielding matronly expression.
All at once I began to feel uneasy, despite the fact that as an investigating magistrate I had dealt with hundreds of deaths in my time.
But that was just it ...
how shall I put it—an unsightly murdered corpse covered with a blanket is one thing; quite another is a worthy fellow who has died of natural causes and is laid out on a catafalque; a certain unceremoniousness is one thing, while quite another is a death that is above board, accustomed
to considerations, to manners—death, you could say, in all its majesty.
No, I repeat, I would never have been so perturbed if they had told me everything at once.
But they were too uncomfortable.
They were too afraid.
I don’t know whether it was simply because I was an intruder, or whether they were perhaps in some way embarrassed by my profession in such circumstances, because of a certain ...
matter-of-factness that my many years of practice must have formed in me; but in any case—this embarrassment of theirs embarrassed me terribly, embarrassed me, in fact, entirely disproportionately.
In my confusion I rose from my chair and mumbled something indistinctly along the lines of: “I’m terribly sorry ...
I’m very ...
I’m sorry.”—I fell silent, but they did not respond whatsoever, for this was still too little for them; with lowered eyes and unmoving faces, their clothes untidy, he unshaven, the women with disheveled hair, their fingernails dirty—they all stood without saying anything.
I cleared my throat, desperately thinking of where to begin, the right expression, but it so happened that my head was completely empty, a void, as I’m sure has happened to you too, while they—they were waiting, immersed in their suffering.
They were waiting without looking—Antoni was drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop, Cecylia was embarrassedly picking at the hem of her dirty gown, and their mother stood motionless, as if turned to stone, with that stern, unyielding matronly expression.
All at once I began to feel uneasy, despite the fact that as an investigating magistrate I had dealt with hundreds of deaths in my time.
But that was just it ...
how shall I put it—an unsightly murdered corpse covered with a blanket is one thing; quite another is a worthy fellow who has died of natural causes and is laid out on a catafalque; a certain unceremoniousness is one thing, while quite another is a death that is above board, accustomed
to considerations, to manners—death, you could say, in all its majesty.
No, I repeat, I would never have been so perturbed if they had told me everything at once.
But they were too uncomfortable.
They were too afraid.
I don’t know whether it was simply because I was an intruder, or whether they were perhaps in some way embarrassed by my profession in such circumstances, because of a certain ...
matter-of-factness that my many years of practice must have formed in me; but in any case—this embarrassment of theirs embarrassed me terribly, embarrassed me, in fact, entirely disproportionately.
I stammered something about the respect and affection I had always felt for the deceased.
Recalling that since our schooldays I had never met him once, a fact that could have been known to them, I added: “During our schooldays.”
They still made no reply, and I had after all to finish somehow, to round things off; and finding nothing else to say, I asked: “Could I see the body?”—and the word “body” somehow came out most unfavorably.
Yet my confusion evidently appeased the widow; she burst into painful tears and gave me her hand, which I kissed humbly.
Recalling that since our schooldays I had never met him once, a fact that could have been known to them, I added: “During our schooldays.”
They still made no reply, and I had after all to finish somehow, to round things off; and finding nothing else to say, I asked: “Could I see the body?”—and the word “body” somehow came out most unfavorably.
Yet my confusion evidently appeased the widow; she burst into painful tears and gave me her hand, which I kissed humbly.
“In the night,” she said dazedly, “Last night ...
I got up this morning ...
I went in ...
I called—Ignaś, Ignaś—but there was no response; he was lying there ...
I fainted ...
I fainted ...
And from that moment my hands haven’t stopped trembling—see for yourself.”
I got up this morning ...
I went in ...
I called—Ignaś, Ignaś—but there was no response; he was lying there ...
I fainted ...
I fainted ...
And from that moment my hands haven’t stopped trembling—see for yourself.”
“What’s the point, Mama?”
“They’re trembling ...
they haven’t stopped trembling”—she raised her arms.
they haven’t stopped trembling”—she raised her arms.
“Mama,” Antoni repeated from the side, in a half-whisper.
“They’re trembling, trembling—of their own accord; see, they’re trembling like aspen leaves ...”
“No one is ...
no one will be ...
it makes no difference.
It’s embarrassing!”
he burst out violently and suddenly turned his back and walked away.
“Antoś!”
his mother called in fright.
“Cecylka, go after him ...”
And I stood there and looked at her shaking hands; I had absolutely nothing to say and felt at a loss, growing more and more disconcerted.
no one will be ...
it makes no difference.
It’s embarrassing!”
he burst out violently and suddenly turned his back and walked away.
“Antoś!”
his mother called in fright.
“Cecylka, go after him ...”
And I stood there and looked at her shaking hands; I had absolutely nothing to say and felt at a loss, growing more and more disconcerted.
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