A Feast at Countess von Doff'sWitold Gombrowicz (translation by Christopher Makosa)It is difficult to state with complete certainty what cemented my intimacy with Countess von Doff - naturally, speaking of intimacy, I mean that slight degree of closeness which may exist between a female member of Society, purebred and aristocratic down to her last dainty little bone, and a representative of a class that is worthy and honorable - but only bourgeois. As I flatter myself, it could have been a certain loftiness I sometimes contrive to display in favorable circumstances, a profound insight and a certain sense of idealism, which won for me the fastidious sympathies of the Countess. - For since I was a child I have felt myself to be a thinking reed and have had a fondness for the more elevated matters; besides, I often spend long hours musing upon beautiful and sublime matters. [25] Thus, my unselfish inquiring disposition, this nobility of thought, this romantic, aristocratic, idealistic, nowadays slightly anachronistic cast of mind, gained me, I presume, access to the Countess’s petits fours and to her incredible Friday dinners. For the Countess was of the more high-minded women: evangelical on one side and renaissance on the other, she acted as patroness of charity fairs and at the same time paid homage to the Muses. Her manifold deeds of mercy commanded admiration, her charitable tea parties and artistic five-o’clock receptions, at which she appeared as some sort of [Marie] de Medici, were widely renowned - and at the same time, the smallest salon of her palace, in which smallest salon the Countess received only a select handful of truly close and confidential guests, was alluring in its exclusivity. Yet the most renowned of all were meatless Friday dinners at the Countess’s. These dinners were - as she herself put it - a kind of respite in the chain of her daily philanthropy; they were in the way of a holiday and flight. “I want to have something for myself too,” said the Countess with a doleful smile, inviting me for the first time to one of those dinners two months ago. “Do, please, call on me on Friday. Some singing, music, some of my closest friends - and you, too, sir . . . and obviously on Friday so there won’t be even a shadow of thought of that meat,” she winced slightly, “of that eternal meat of yours, and of that blood. [26] Too much meat- eating! Too much meat fume! You people see no more happiness beyond a bloody beefsteak - you run away from fasting - disgusting meat offal you would wolf down all day long without pause. I throw down the gauntlet,” she added, subtly puckering up her eyes, meaningful and symbolic as ever. “It is my desire to prove that a fast is not a diet but - a feast for the soul.” - What an honor! To be numbered among the ten or, at the most, fifteen persons, who attained to the splendor of the Countess’ meatless dinners! The world of fashion, let alone the world of those dinners, has always attracted and magnetized me. It seems that the secret intention of Countess von Doff’s was, as it were, new Holy Trinity trenches against the barbarism of the present day (not without cause did the Krasinskis’ blood course through her veins) [27] - it seems that she professed the profound conviction that the aristocracy of birth was chosen not only to add outward luster to parties and receptions, but that in every area, also spiritual and artistic, it was capable, on the strength of its superior breeding, of securing self-sufficiency for itself - that therefore an aristocratic salon sufficed in every respect to create a truly sublime salon. It was an archaic and somewhat pitiful thought, but at any rate - in its venerable archaic nature - remarkably daring and profound, such as one would doubtless expect from a female descendent of hetmans. [28] And indeed - when at table, in an antique dining hall, far away from murder and corpses, from a billion slaughtered oxen, representatives of the oldest families revived, under the Countess’ leadership, Plato’s symposia - the spirit of poetry and philosophy seemed to float amid the crystal and the flowers, whereas the enchanted words composed verses all by themselves. There was, for instance, a certain prince who, at the Countess’s request, assumed the role of intellectual and philosopher - and he did so in such a princely manner, delivering himself of such beautiful and noble ideas that, hearing them, Plato, put to shame, would probably have stationed himself behind the Prince’s chair with a napkin, to exchange platters. There was a baroness who undertook to grace the gatherings by singing, even though she had never learned to sing before - and I doubt that Ada Sari would, on that occasion, have produced so much good tone [29]. The gastronomic temperance of those receptions contained something too wonderful for words, wonderfully vegetarian - luxuriously vegetarian, I should say - while the gigantic fortunes, bent humbly over their meager helpings of kohlrabi, made an unforgettable impression, especially in contrast to the habits of the day, frightfully carnivorous. Even our teeth, the teeth of rodents, seemed here to lose their mark of Cain . . . And as for the cuisine, the Countess’s vegetarian cuisine was without equal, no doubt; the taste of her tomatoes stuffed with rice was extraordinarily thick, and her omelets with asparagus sensationally good with regard to firmness and aroma. The Friday in question I was again, after several months, honored with an invitation and, not without the unavoidable jitters, I drew up in a modest hackney carriage before the ancient pediment of a palace situated just off Warsaw. But instead of the dozen or so people I had expected, I found only two guests, and that by no means the most excellent ones: a toothless old Marquise who, out of necessity, abandoned herself to vegetables every day of the week, and a certain Baron of a somewhat dubious family, namely the Baron de Apfelbaum, who owing to the number of his millions - and to his mother nee Princess Pstryczynski - had redeemed the number of ancestors as well as an execrable nose. Also, right in the beginning, I sensed an almost indiscernible dissonance . . . as if something were out of tune . . . and what is more, the soup made of pumpkin stuffed with pate - specialite de la maison - soup made of pumpkin, sweet and stewed until tender, which was served as the first course, turned out to be unexpectedly meager, watery and without substance. In spite of this I did not betray the slightest surprise or disappointment (manners of this kind would have been in place everywhere but not at Countess von Doff’s); instead, my face radiant and entranced, I ventured a compliment: As I pointed out, at the Countess’ Friday receptions, rhymed poetry, in consequence of the exceptional harmony and sparkle of those gatherings, would rise to one’s lips all by itself - it would have been quite unseemly not to intersperse spells of prose with rhymes. All at once - my horror! - the Baron de Apfelbaum who, as a prodigiously delicate poet and a fastidious gourmet, was a twofold admirer of the winged cuisine of our hostess, stoops close toward me and whispers in my ear with ill-concealed repulsion and anger - such as I had never expected from him:
Astounded by this crass sally, I coughed. What did he mean to say? The Baron, luckily, collected himself at the last moment. What could have occurred here since my previous call [?] - the dinner seemed to be no more than the specter of a dinner, the food was poor, and the noses hung in dejection. After the soup the second course was served - a platter of carrot, scanty and meager, in roux-thickened sauce. I admired the spiritual strength of the Countess! Pale, in a black toilette with hereditary brilliants, she absorbed the vapid dish with absolute courage, making us follow in her footsteps - and with her usual skill she sent the conversation soaring toward the clouds. Waving a napkin, she gave an opening address gracefully, though not without melancholy:
-
Love is the most beautiful, no doubt, -
Beautiful rose “You have expressed it to perfection, dearly beloved sir,” lisped the
toothless Marquise, with delight. “Marvelous! Compassion! St. Francis
of Assisi! I too have my poor ones, little children suffering from the
English disease [30], to whom I have devoted the whole of my toothless
old age! We ought constantly to remember the poor, the unfortunate .
. .” “Bravo! Beyond compare! What a thought! - profound! wise! proud! God has entrusted Maria von Doff to me - and I shall return her to Him alone!” all exclaimed, and I (considering that Prince Jozef Poniatowski was under discussion) allowed myself to thrum softly on the note of patriotism: The White Eagle - always remember that name. [32] The lackeys brought in a huge cauliflower basted with fresh, delicious
butter and wonderfully browned - alas, one could assume, on the basis
of the previous experiences, that the said brownish hue was of the consumptive
sort. That is what a conversation at the Countess’s was like - that
is what a great feast it was even in such unfavorable culinary circumstances.
I flatter myself that my statement about Love being the most beautiful
of all does not belong to the shallowest of statements; I even suppose
that it might be the crown of many a philosophical poem. Yet right away
another dinner guest, bidding in plus, tosses in an aphorism
about Compassion being even more beautiful than Love. Splendid! - And
truthful! For indeed - on pondering it deeply, it must be admitted that
Compassion, which covers more space with her cloak than lofty Love,
has a still wider scope. Nor is that all - the Countess, that wise female
Amphitryon of ours [33], trembling that we might melt away without
a trace into Love and Compassion, mentions in passing our sublime duties
toward ourselves - and then I, subtly taking advantage of the final
rhyme in “-ame,” add only one thing: “The White Eagle - always remember
that name.” And the form, the manners, the mode of expression, the noble
and refined temperance of the feast, vie with the content! “No!” I thought,
delighted. “Those who have never attended the Countess’ Friday receptions
are, properly speaking, ignorant of the aristocracy!” Yet the Countess would not calm down until the cook appeared - a long,
thin individual with a sidelong glance and carroty hair- swearing by
the shade of his deceased wife that the cauliflower was pure and without
taint. This unprecedented and sudden manifestation of gobbling - I cannot
express it otherwise - of such gobbling, in such a household,
this awful leap, this diminished- seventh chord [34], shook me to the
foundations of my being to such an extent that, unable to restrain myself,
I sneezed - and, since I had left my handkerchief in my coat pocket,
I saw myself obliged to beg forgiveness of the company and rise from
the table. In the antechamber, on slumping motionless in a chair, I
attempted to steady my wobbly senses. Only he who, like me, had known
the Countess, the Marquise and the Baron for so long; the refinement
of their gestures, their delicacy, the temperance and subtlety of all
their functions, especially their function of eating; the incomparable
nobility of their facial features - only he could appreciate the monstrous
impression I had received. Just at that moment I accidentally took a
glance at a copy of “The Red Courier” sticking out from my coat
pocket, and a sensational headline caught my eye: KOLIFLAUER’S MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE and a brief note which read as follows: “Walenty Koliflauer, a groom in the village of Rudka (belonging
to the estates of the right honorable Countess von Doff), came to the
police precinct to report that his son, Bolek, eight years of age, round
pug nose, fallow hair, had run away from home. As the police discovered,
the boy escaped because his father, when drunk, would whip him with
a strap while his mother would starve him (alas, a widespread phenomenon
during the prevailing crisis). It is feared that the boy might freeze
to death wandering the fields in the foul autumn weather.” “Sss . . . ,” I hissed, “Sss . . . ,” I glanced out the window at the
fields swathed in an extremely thin sheet of rain. And I returned to
the dining hall, where the enormous silver platter exhaled the vaporous
remnants of the cauliflower. The Countess’s stomach looked as if she
were seven months’ pregnant - the Baron had almost plunged his organ
of digestion in his plate - and the old Marquise chewed tirelessly,
moving her jaws - really, I must say it - like a cow! And, giving up the rest of the dinner, everyone rolled, full stomachs
first, into a gilded boudoir a la Louis XVI where, sprawling in the
softest of armchairs, they began to poke fun - this without a
doubt - at none other than me, as if I had really given them reason
for any particular jubilation. I had been hobnobbing with the aristocracy
at five-o’clock teas and charity concerts for a long time - but, upon
my word, I had never seen such behavior, such an abrupt transition,
such a completely unwarranted transformation. Not knowing whether to
sit or stand, whether to be serious, or rather faire bonne mine a
mauvais jeu and grin stupidly - I tried vaguely and I tried shyly
to return to Arcadia, i.e., to Beauty, i.e., to the pumpkin soup: “Enough, enough!” exclaimed the Baron de Apfelbaum, stopping his ears.
“Bravo!” exclaimed the Countess, and the Marquise chimed in with her,
revealing her gums in a senile chortle. - “Bravo! Cocasse! Charmant!”
“Why,” I whispered, “Countess . . . Green peas, carrots, celery roots,
kohlrabi . . .” No longer able to bear my own silence, which was with every moment
casting me further and further into some monstrous precipice, I finally
said to the Countess without rhyme or reason, like an outdated echo
of the past: “But Countess!” I exclaimed, painfully hurt at seeing this historical
name, Doff, so twisted. Maybe I took my staggering if undeserved degringolade too much to heart; maybe under its impact I yielded to the persecution mania of an individual from the lower classes that has been admitted into society: and also, certain accidental connections, certain, shall we say, analogies, aroused my sensitivity - I do not mean to deny it, maybe so . . . but suddenly something quite extraordinary blew from them toward me! And I do not deny that their refinement, subtlety, politeness, elegance, were still as refined, subtle, elegant and polite as they could possibly be, no doubt of it - but also, and goodness knows why, they were so stifling that I was inclined to believe that all those fine and humanitarian qualities had become mad, as if stung by a gadfly! What is more, it suddenly occurred to me ( it was undoubtedly the effect of the dainty foot, of the little ear and of the refined neck) that not looking, ignoring me in a lordly manner, they still saw my confusion and could not get their fill of glee over it! And at the same time, I had a suspicion that Boff . . . that Boff was not necessarily a mere lapsus linguae, that in a word, if I make myself clear, Boff stood for boff! Boff? Boff the Countess? Yes, yes, the shiny toes of patent leather shoes confirmed me still further in that terrifying conviction! - it seemed that, on the quiet, they were still splitting their sides with laughter because I did not grasp the cauliflower’s flavor - because that cauliflower was a mere vegetable to me - because, by failing to delight in that cauliflower properly, I had given proof of my saintly simplicity and deplorable bourgeois mentality - because of that they were simply splitting their sides with laughter on the quiet, readying themselves to burst out loud if I only gave expression to the emotions which agitated me. Yes, yes - they ignored me, snubbed me, and at the same time, on the side, with individual aristocratic body parts, with their dainty feet, ears, necks, they provoked and tempted me to break the seal of secrecy. I suppose I do not need to add how this quiet temptation, this underhanded,
unhealthy flirtation, shook everything in the thinking reed that I was.
I have vaguely mentioned the “secret” of aristocracy, that secret of
good taste, that mystery which those who are not of the elect will never
possess, even if, as Schopenhauer says, they knew three hundred rules
of savoir-vivre by heart. And, though for an instant the hope
flashed into my mind that on learning that secret I would be admitted
into their circle and would burr my r’s saying “fantastic” and “crazed”
like them, yet my burning desire for knowledge was completely paralyzed,
setting aside other considerations, by the apprehension and fear of
- why not admit it openly [?] - of getting slapped in the face. With
the aristocracy one can never be sure, with the aristocracy one must
deal more carefully than with a tame leopard. A certain member of the
bourgeoisie, when once asked by Princess X. about his mother’s maiden
name, grew insolent in consequence of the seeming permissiveness prevailing
in that salon and the tolerance granted to two of his previous witticisms:
and, assuming he was free to do all he wanted, he replied, “With your
leave - Bumbkin!” - and for that “with your leave” (which was construed
as vulgar) he was immediately turned out of doors. Seeing me in a state of complete, nearly paralytic passivity, they
began, as if imperceptibly, to circle around me even more closely, to
harass me even more explicitly, and to attempt, even more obviously,
to make a dupe of me. “Look at that terrified expression!” cried the
Countess all of a sudden, and they began to mock me, saying that surely
I must be awfully “outrraged” and “horrrified,” for certainly nobody
“rromps” and "rraves" like that in my set; that the manners
prevailing in it were incomparably better and not as savage as in their
aristocratic circles. Feigning fear of my harshness, they began playfully
to admonish and reprove one another, pretending that they valued my
opinion above all things. And in the wake of these bon mots, tossed with the freedom that only the aristocracy of birth can manage, there followed movements and gestures which . . . the meaning of which, wedged into my chair, utterly motionless, I wish, oh! I wish I had not understood. I will not even mention that the ear, the dainty nose, the refined neck, the little foot, were on the point of reaching the level of ardor and frenzy - but what is more, the banker, having inhaled cigarette smoke deeply, began to blow small sky-blue rings into the air. Would that he blew only a ring or two, by God! But he blew and blew, one after another, pursing his lips in a little snout - while the Countess and the Marquise clapped their hands! And every ring rose aloft and dissolved slowly, in melodious sinuosities! All this time the Countess’s long, serpentine, white arm reposed on the patterned satin of the armchair - whereas her nervous-looking ankle, black-clad, mordant, vicious as a viper, fidgeted under the table. I did not feel quite at my ease. Nor was that all - I swear I am not exaggerating! - the Baron went so far in his effrontery that, having raised his upper lip, he pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and with it began to pick his teeth, yes, his teeth - rich-looking, decayed, thickly laced with gold! Aghast, utterly at a loss as to what to do and where to escape, I addressed
myself imploringly to the Marquise, who had shown me the most kindness
and who, at the dinner table, had worshipped so movingly Pity and her
little children suffering from the English disease - and I began to
say something about pity - I almost begged for pity. They were not looking at me - they were looking up somewhere at the
ceiling, tilting back their heads as if that alone could stop the violent
spasms of their jowls. Ha! I had no more doubts, I at last understood
where I was, and an uncontrollable twitching of my lower jaw seized
me. And the rain kept lashing against the windowpanes like a thin whip.
Who would have ventured a repartee? Who would not, as they say, have lost his tongue? I fell silent - and the Marquise seated herself at the piano, while the Baron and the Countess began to frolic - and from each of their movements there emanated so much style, good taste, elegance, that - ha! - I wanted to flee, but how does one depart without a good-bye? And how does one say good-bye when others are dancing? Thus, I was watching from a corner, and - really - never, never had I dreamed of such ultimate shamelessness, of such brazen-faced wretches! I cannot inflict violence on my nature by describing what was happening - no, nobody can demand that from me. Suffice it to say that while the Countess was sliding out her dainty foot the Baron was withdrawing his many, many times - and this with wholly affable faces, with an expression as if that dance were, oh, no more than a mere Milonga tango - whereas the Marquise, on the piano, was tossing off passages, arpeggios and trills! But I already knew what it was: forcibly, they had crammed the dance of cannibals into my soul! The dance of cannibals! - with style, with good taste and with elegance! - and I was only looking around for an idol, a Negro monster with a square skull, flattened nose, upturned lips and rounded cheeks, presiding over the Bacchanalia from somewhere on high. And, having directed my gaze to the window, I saw, behind the windowpane, precisely something of the sort - a round childish face with a flattened nose, with upraised eyebrows, with protruding ears, emaciated and feverish, yet staring with the cosmic idiocy of a Negro deity and with such unearthly rapture that, during the next hour (or two), like hypnotized, I did not tear my gaze away from the buttons of my vest. And when finally at dawn I slipped out down the slimy stairs of the
porch and into the graying foul weather, I saw, under the window,
a body lying in the bed of dried irises. It was simply a corpse, the
corpse of a little boy of eight, fallow-haired, pug-nosed, barefooted,
and so emaciated as to seem, one might say, utterly devoured - only
here and there, under the grimy skin, a tiny bit of flesh remained.
Ha, so hapless Bolek Koliflauer had strayed all the way here, lured
by the brightness of the windows, which could be seen from far off in
the soggy field. And suddenly, as I was running out of the gate, there
emerged from somewhere Philip the cook - white-clad, with a round little
cap, sidelong glance and carroty stubble, thin and refined with the
refinement of a master of the culinary art who first slaughters hens,
so as to serve them later on the table as chicken fricassees - and fawning,
bowing, wagging his tail, he said in servile tones: “I hope his lordship
found the meatless feast delicious!”
NOTES 25 A thinking reed: "Man is only a reed, the weakest in nature, but he is a thinking reed." (Blaise Pascal, Pensees, tr. by Dr. A. Krailsheimer, Penguin Books, 1966, p.95). ...fondness for the more elevated matters . . . musing upon beautiful and sublime matters: This repetition can also be found in the original. 26 It is worth noting that Catholics are required to abstain from all meat products on every Friday of the year. 27 To understand this obscure allusion, the reader should be aware of these two things: a. Gombrowicz’s model for the Countess had been one Marta Krasinski, a socialite dedicated to philanthropy and culture. (Witold Gombrowicz, Wspomnienia Polskie, Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow 1996, p.94); b. The idea of Holy Trinity trenches comes from Zygmunt Krasinski’s drama "The Un-Divine Comedy." In it the reactionaries (mainly aristocrats, landowners and the clergy), positioned in the trenches surrounding The Holy Trinity Castle, defend themselves against the revolutionaries (the lower classes), attempting to stem the tide of what may be termed "barbarism," "savagery," etc. Also, see Note 12 on Zygmunt Krasinski (1812-1859), a romanticist playwright and poet. 28 Hetman: In former times, the Commander-in-Chief of the Polish army. Hetmans were recruited from among the highest aristocracy. 29 Ada Sari (1886-1968): A Polish-born opera singer. Ada Sari was a renowned coloratura soprano - that is, a vocal virtuoso capable of performing various spectacular effects, such as rapid runs and trills, in the highest register. 30 The English disease: An obsolete name for rickets. 31 Prince Jozef Poniatowski (1796-1813): See Note 11. 32 The White Eagle: A crowned white eagle, its wings spread on a red escutcheon, is the national emblem of Poland. 33 Amphitryon: A host or, more specifically, an entertainer to dinner. The term comes from Moliere’s comedy ("Amphitryon"), in which Amphitryon, foster-father of Hercules, entertains his guests to a sumptuous feast. 34 diminished-seventh chord: A staggering musical effect, also known as accorde di stupefazione or "chord of stupefaction." It is used to enhance tension and drama. 35 Why, dearr sirr . . . you want to grrieve us?: From this point on the Baron de Apfelbaum burrs his r’s, affecting the Parisian grasseymant (from the French word grasseyer, i.e., to use a uvular ‘r’), which was fairly popular with the Polish aristocracy. In standard, unaffected speech, native Polish speakers roll their r’s.
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Translation and notes by Christopher Makosa